


The Payoff Pitch

by Leslie_Knope



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Baseball Player Derek, Bottom Derek Hale, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Coming Out, Demisexual Derek, Discussions of sexuality, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV Derek, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-09-22 19:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 83,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9621980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leslie_Knope/pseuds/Leslie_Knope
Summary: Derek is on the cusp of his second season with the LA Dodgers, and as the reigning runner-up Rookie of the Year, the pressure’s on him to become the team’s star pitcher and lead them to the playoffs for the first time in five years. He’s trying to deal with the burden of expectations and really has zero desire to spend any extra time or energy on anything that isn’t baseball.But then he meets Stiles.





	1. January

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the baseball AU of my dreams! I am a serious baseball fan, but you definitely don't have to be to enjoy this fic. 
> 
> Chapters will be posted once a week, on Tuesdays, but if you hate WIPs and just want to wait and read the whole thing in 12 weeks, I understand. :) There are texts and emojis in the fic, but they should still show up fine as plain text if you're reading a PDF or with the style off. Please let me know if anything looks strange!
> 
> This fic would pretty much not exist without the lovely [cobrilee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cobrilee/pseuds/Cobrilee), who is the best cheerleader a girl could ask for and basically holds my hand as I write it.
> 
>  
> 
> [(And I'm on Tumblr.)](http://leslieknopeismyspiritanimal.tumblr.com/)

_33, 34, 35._

Derek counted silently in his head. His chest and his triceps were already burning from the rest of his workout, and the pushups weren’t exactly helping. But the offseason was designed for building muscle and getting stronger, so he gritted his teeth and kept going.

_48, 49, 50_.

He avoided collapsing straight onto his face after the last rep, but it was a close thing. He rolled onto his back instead and stretched out his chest, sighing as the sharp burn settled into a familiar deep ache. One of the other guys working out tossed him a towel, which he caught with a grateful nod before wiping the sweat off his face.

Derek really wanted to just lay there for a little while, until his heart rate came back down, but he heaved himself up into a seated position and started to stretch, first his chest and then his back. He moved onto all fours for a couple flows between cat pose and cow pose, enjoying the sensation as the warmth spread up his spine.

Ever since their series of seminars last spring, most of the guys on the team had taken up yoga. Derek’s motivations were a little different (i.e., he wasn’t as interested in the pretty blonde with the little shorts), but he couldn’t deny the benefits. He tucked his toes under and pushed back into downward dog, wincing. His hamstrings felt a little tighter than usual; he’d have to keep an eye on that.

Finally, once he felt less like a piece of pulverized meat, he gingerly got to his feet and left the weight room, waving goodbye at the guys still working out. The trainers’ room was right next door, and he let one of the guys wrap a bag of ice over his shoulder. “20 minutes, okay? Then do it a couple more times later today.”

Derek knew the drill, but he nodded anyway. “Yeah, thanks.”

There wasn’t much he could do with his arm immobilized, so he hopped on one of the stationary bikes and set it to an easy resistance. There was a TV in the corner, turned to a random soccer game, and Derek watched it half-heartedly while he reviewed his workout in his head. He hadn’t done anything too strenuous, just a glorified game of catch, really, with the pitching coach, but it felt good nonetheless. He had almost six weeks before they started official spring training, and he was feeling confident and prepared. Most days, anyway.

Finally he was done, and he tipped the bag of ice out into the sink. The locker room was blessedly empty, and Derek yawned as he stripped off his Dodgers shirt in front of his locker. He stuffed it into his bag, rummaging for his clean one, and noticed that he had a text from Erica. 

10:15 AM **Erica:** My friend from high school recently moved to LA. Cool if he joins us for brunch?  
  
11:42 AM **Derek:** Ok

Derek grimaced. New people weren’t exactly his favorite thing, especially when they intruded on his weekly brunch with Erica, but he didn’t want to be rude. He checked the time—he shouldn’t be late, not if he took a quick shower and the traffic was decent. Which, considering Los Angeles, wasn’t exactly something he could count on.

He hurried through his shower and threw his clothes on, wincing when they stuck to his still-damp skin. After packing his bag up, he slung it over his shoulder and headed out.

“Derek!”

Derek looked up, a little startled, but he smiled at the sight of Matt Dennis, one of the veterans on the team who’d been most welcoming to Derek last season. “Matty, hey,” he said, leaning in for one of those bro hugs that he secretly hated. “How’s it going?”

“Good, good. How’d the throwing go today? Feel good after that time off?”

Derek nodded, his face brightening. After their season ended in early October, he was instructed by their coaching staff not to touch a baseball for the rest of the year. He knew he needed the rest after his first full season in the majors—and consequently, the most innings he’d ever thrown in a year—but he had been eager to get back to it, after the longest break from pitching he’d taken since he was a kid.

“Yeah. Yeah, definitely. Feels great.”

“Good. Take care of that golden arm, okay?”

Derek huffed and rolled his eyes, but Matty just slapped him on the shoulder with a grin and kept going toward the locker room. _Golden arm_ , _right_ , he thought, rotating his shoulder unconsciously. He just hoped he could live up to it.

* * *

The traffic gods were on his side today because it took him under 20 minutes to get across town and find a parking spot within a block from the café where he and Erica always went for brunch. It was a little hole-in-the-wall with pretty decent food that magically wasn’t ever too crowded, even on a Saturday. And Derek had never gotten recognized there, which was a serious bonus. Still, he pulled the brim of his cap low over his forehead and didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he entered the restaurant and wormed his way to the far corner of the back patio, where they usually sat.

Erica was already there, sitting next to a dark-haired guy with his back to Derek, and she half-stood in her seat, waving. He nodded back and hugged her when he was close enough, letting her lean up and kiss him on the cheek. “Hey there. It’s good to see you.”

“You, too, Der,” she said, squeezing him and gesturing to the guy. “And this is Stiles. Stiles, Derek.”

_What the hell kind of name was Stiles?_ Derek thought, but he pasted on a bland smile as he shook Stiles’ hand. “Hi.”

“Hey, dude,” he said, smiling broadly. “Nice to meet you.”

Their usual waitress came right over and patiently took their orders, even though Stiles was the only one actually looking at a menu. Derek got the same thing every time, an egg white omelet with roasted potatoes and one piece of bacon, while Erica cycled through a half dozen of her favorites.

“So, Stiles,” Erica started, twisting to face him. “Fill me in on the gossip.”

Stiles laughed and started talking about someone that Derek didn’t know or care about, so he closed his eyes, exhaling at the feel of sun on his face. There were a lot of things that he didn’t like about LA, but being able to sit outside on an early January day sure wasn’t one of them.

Erica was definitely capable of holding a conversation—which was one of the reasons Derek liked her, honestly—and Stiles was even better. Or worse? Whichever it was, it left Derek to sit in peace and enjoy his omelet while their chattering washed over him.

“So do you ever talk?”

There was a pause, and Derek looked up. Stiles was smirking and looking straight at him, and Derek realized that he’d been speaking to him. He patiently finished chewing and took a slow sip of his coffee. “I bet you talk enough for the both of us.”

Stiles burst out laughing, looking a little surprised. “Yeah, well, that’s probably true. Sorry for monopolizing the conversation there.”

“Oh, please, he was thrilled,” Erica said, rolling her eyes, and Stiles laughed again.

“So how long have you two been friends?”

“First week of freshman year,” Derek said. He realized that he should probably contribute _something_ to the conversation; he wasn’t a total hermit, after all. “We lived next to each other and both had shitty roommates.”

“We kinda became de facto roommates, and it’s been happily ever after since then,” Erica chimed in, winking at him. “Well, without the love part. We kissed once when we were drunk, and it was _not_ good.”

“Hey,” Derek said mildly, pretending to be offended, and Stiles snorted.

“Oh, and you introduced her to Boyd, right?”

Derek nodded, smiling when Erica blushed. He and Boyd were drafted by the Dodgers the same year, and they became friends almost as soon as they met. Derek immediately introduced him to Erica. “Yeah. That was me.”

“Talk about happily ever after,” Stiles said, smirking, and Erica laughed as she brought her hands up to cover her face. “I’m gonna need to know more.”

Derek tuned out again after that—he was _way_ too familiar with the details of their early relationship—and only started paying attention again when they started talking about TV shows.

“New season of Game of Thrones starts tomorrow, I can’t wait,” Stiles was saying, and Erica rolled her eyes.

“ _Borrr_ -ing. For all the nudity in that show, there aren’t near enough dicks,” she said. Stiles laughed, and Derek rolled his eyes. “Derek watches it, though.”

“Yeah? So are you excited that they’re finally moving past the books?”

Derek frowned. “Absolutely not. They should have waited.”

“Ah. You’re one of those stodgy book readers, aren’t you?” Stiles asked, smirking, and Derek huffed.

“No,” he said, even though he totally was. “I just think it makes for a more _thorough_ viewing experience to have read the books.”

“Oh, I totally agree, I’m a book reader, too. Just not a stodgy one,” he said, his eyes bright, and Derek rolled his eyes.

“It’s either going to spoil the books or be _different_ from the original intent. Neither option is very appealing.”

“Well, first of all, even if they’re deviating from the original plot points, the show has been different enough from the source material in the past that reading the book should still be enjoyable. And if it’s different, that’s even better! With such a sprawling world of characters, there’s definitely more than one way to reach a satisfying conclusion.”

Derek wrinkled his nose. He wasn’t totally convinced. “We’ll see.”

“You should come over to my place tomorrow and watch it, if you want,” Stiles said easily, and Derek hesitated. Erica was giving him an excited look—she was always after him about “needing to make new friends,” or whatever. Derek always told her that he didn’t have time for more friends, but surprisingly, he wasn’t actively disliking Stiles’ company.

“Okay,” he said slowly, and Erica grinned at him. “Yeah, sure.”

* * *

7:02 PM **Derek:** We said 8ish, right?  
  
**Stiles:** Yep! 555 Magnolia. It's the red house on the corner.

Derek drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, triple-checking the address that Stiles texted him to make sure it matched the place he was parked in front of. The house was cute and kind of quirky-looking, small but clean and clearly well-maintained.

He heaved a deep breath and then frowned when it came out a little shaky. He was…weirdly nervous? What the hell? He was pretty decent at making casual acquaintance-ish friends, after years of playing on many different baseball teams, so why was he so anxious about it? That’s all this was. Stiles had just moved to LA, he was probably just looking to meet any new people that he could.

Derek shook his head at himself and got out of the car, walked up the little stone path, and rapped sharply on the door. Stiles swung it open just a few seconds later.

“Hey! Awesome, you’re here. You had no trouble finding it? Ugh, duh, obviously,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Come in, come in.”

Derek smiled, in spite of himself, and stepped over the threshold. “I brought beer,” he said, lifting the six-pack, and Stiles bowed a little in his direction before taking it from him.

“Fantastic, what a houseguest. Thanks, dude.”

Derek stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked around. The little foyer opened up into a large living room, with a weathered leather couch and a couple comfy-looking armchairs, all angled toward a big flat-screen that was currently showing an NFL game on mute. “Nice place.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said over his shoulder as he walked further into the house, toward what Derek assumed was the kitchen. “Make yourself at home, whatever. Sorry about the mess, still unpacking, you know.”

There were a few open boxes strewn across the room, but other than that it was pretty neat. Two big bookcases were already set up on the far wall, stuffed full of books and other random knickknacks, and there were two framed pieces hanging next to them. They looked somewhat familiar, funnily enough, so Derek took a step in that direction. He oddly felt like he was invading Stiles’ privacy, but they were hanging in his living room, so it was fair game, right?

He carefully stepped over a box hiding behind the couch and leaned in for a closer look, then blinked. The framed items were baseball _scorecards_. Keeping score on paper, with the requisite symbols and diagrams, was an old-school way of watching a baseball game, so much so that barely anyone ever did it anymore, save for baseball players and sportswriters and some avid fans, usually older ones. Were these Stiles’? Or just some kind of vintage decorating thing?

One of the scorecards was in neat loopy writing, probably a woman’s, while the other was in a kid’s childish scrawl. Both were dated, from 2002, and signed at the bottom. Derek could make out _Stiles_ , in blocky all-caps writing, and he frowned.

“I thought you didn’t like baseball,” he said, raising his voice so Stiles could hear him.

“Never said that!” Stiles called out from the kitchen. “Love it, in fact. Totally obsessed.”

“But you didn’t—”

Derek cut himself off, blushing, and Stiles appeared in the wide, open doorway between the living room and the kitchen, leaning his shoulder against the wall.

“Didn’t recognize you?” he asked, smirking.

Derek cleared his throat. The tips of his ears were burning, god. “Uh, yeah.”

Stiles snorted and stepped toward him, holding out an opened bottle of beer with a Batman koozie on it. Derek took it and let Stiles clink the necks together. “Well, I’m glad to hear that my acting skills are up to snuff because I most definitely _did_ recognize you. I practically shit my pants when you walked in. Glad to know that I hid it well.”

“You did.”

Derek appreciated it, actually—he always felt uncomfortable when people fawned over him just because he was blessed with the genetic ability to throw a ball really fast. But he didn’t know how to say that without being weird.

“Erica neglected to mention that her ‘best friend from college, Derek,’” Stiles said, complete with the air quotes, “was Derek _Hale_ , fucking rookie of the year.”

Derek rolled his eyes and took a long swig of beer as he sat down onto the couch. “I was _not_ rookie of the year.”

“Shoulda been,” Stiles retorted, collapsing down next to him. “That fucking offensive bias, I swear.”

Derek huffed a little laugh. He did have the best stats of all the rookie pitchers last season, but the Cardinals had some phenom third baseman who hit about a million home runs and got more votes for the award than Derek did. “You a Dodgers fan, then?”

Stiles grimaced. “Fuck, no. The Mets.”

“How the hell are you a Mets fan?” Derek asked, wrinkling his nose. “Didn’t you grow up with Erica up north?”

“My mom was a Mets fan,” Stiles said, and even if Derek hadn’t caught the past tense, he was all too familiar with that wistful smile.

He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said softly, looking down at his hands dangling between his legs. “When I was 10.”

Derek felt bad that he inadvertently guided Stiles into telling him something so personal, and he strangely felt the need to even the playing field. “I, uh…my dad and my little sister passed away when I was in high school. Car accident.”

Stiles grimaced. “Shit.”

Derek nodded and took another gulp of beer. It had been close to 10 years, almost, and he still couldn’t talk about it without tears pricking at the back of his eyes.

“Well,” Stiles said loudly, smacking his knee. “That took a downer turn.”

Derek snorted and looked up, blinking a few times.

“My mom was the one who—she was fanatical about keeping score, you know, and she taught me. Now I can’t go to a baseball game without doing it,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the scorecards, and Derek followed his gaze.

“Those are really cool. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any fan under the age of about 60 keeping score,” he said with a little smirk, and Stiles laughed.

“Yeah, trust me, there’s no faster way to make friends with every senior citizen in a ballpark. It’s pretty awesome.” Something dinged in the kitchen, and Stiles hopped to his feet. “Food’s ready. You hungry?”

“Sure,” Derek said, shrugging. It smelled pretty good, anyway.

He put his feet up on the coffee table—its scuffs indicated that it was probably used to that—and found the remote to unmute the TV, although he turned the volume down.

“Nachos,” Stiles said, setting a big plate down on the coffee table with a flourish. “Dinner of champions.”

Oh god, nachos. Derek kept to a pretty healthful diet, even in the offseason, and he tried to hide his grimace.

But evidently he didn’t hide it _all_ because Stiles rolled his eyes at him.

“Okay, well, first of all, it’s rude to insult your host’s food,” he said, smacking Derek on the shoulder. He flushed and started to apologize, but Stiles kept talking. “And second of all, they’re healthy nachos. So relax, mister health nut.”

“How do you make healthy nachos?” Derek asked, leaning forward to peer at them.

“Easy. Whole grain chips, homemade salsa, black beans, chicken breast, avocado, not too much cheese.”

“Wow,” he said as he reached for one, suitably impressed. “Are _you_ a health nut?”

Stiles chuckled a little. “Kinda, sometimes. I ended up taking over the household cooking a little while after my, uh, when my mom died, and since my dad is always borderline high cholesterol and blood pressure, I learned to cook a lot of healthy food. I just figured you probably liked that kinda stuff, so—”

“Thanks,” he said, through a mouthful. “These are really good.”

“Oh my god, you caveman,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “Swallow your damn food.”

Derek chewed loudly, just to be a dick, and ducked when Stiles flung a throw pillow at him. Yeah, maybe this would turn out all right.

* * *

6:06 PM **Derek:** I might've Googled you.  
  
**Stiles:** Well I've *definitely* googled you, so...  
  
**Derek:** I bought your books.  
  
**Derek:** Thanks for not even telling me that you were an author.  
  
**Stiles:** You never asked!  
  
**Stiles:** Seriously, how did you never even ask what I did for a living? B- for the conversational skills.  
  
**Derek:** Because you were a little fixated on what I do for a living.  
  
**Stiles:** Yeah, well, not all of us can be as cool as you, sue me.  *winky emoji*  
  
**Stiles:** But seriously, you didn’t have to buy them. I would’ve given them to you, I have a bunch.  
  
**Derek:** I think I can afford it.  
  
**Stiles:** Ooh, burn. Well, thanks for the $1.60 in royalties.  *money emoji*  
  
**Derek:** Anytime.

* * *

Stiles got invited to their brunch the following week, also, but strangely, Derek didn’t mind as much as last time. He even tried to contribute to the conversation.

“I started reading your book,” Derek said, smirking when Stiles groaned. “It’s good, I like it.”

“Oh, god,” he said, covering his face as he groaned again. Erica just laughed. “That’s so weird.”

“What, why?” Derek asked. He wasn’t lying—fantasy usually wasn’t his genre, but he’d burned through the first 100 pages in one right, much faster than he usually read. And at least according to what he learned from his internet research, the books were critically-acclaimed and had both spent a lot of time on the New York Times Bestseller list.

“It’s just weird when people that I _know_ read them, I dunno,” Stiles said, shrugging.

“I’ve read them both, obviously,” Erica chimed in. “When does the third book in the series come out?”

Stiles hummed. “I don’t know if there’s a date yet. I’m working on the fourth one right now.”

“So if I ask _real_ nicely, you’ll tell me what happens?” Erica says, batting her eyes while she poked her lower lip out, and Stiles leaned forward, maintaining eye contact.

“No,” he said finally, when their noses were about an inch apart, and Erica laughed, tipping her head down against his shoulder. Stiles grinned and wrapped his arm around her shoulder to haul her closer to his chest.

“Sorry, love, no spoilers. Not even for people as beautiful as you.”

Erica groaned dramatically and turned her face into his shoulder as she hugged him. “You’re the worst.”

Stiles smirked at Derek over her head, and he just rolled his eyes.

He managed to slip his credit card to the waitress while Stiles and Erica were bantering about something, and he signed the little slip before they even realized what was happening. They each tried to stuff cash in his pockets on their way out the restaurant, but Derek was stronger than both of them and was able to hold them off.

“Bye, Erica,” Stiles said, hugging her tightly before waving at Derek. “We still on for tomorrow, yeah?”

Derek nodded and kept walking with Erica toward their cars.

“So you guys have a little ongoing Game of Thrones date now?” she asked, grinning, and he rolled his eyes.

“Yeah. He’s…not the worst.”

She elbowed him in the side and laughed. “Wow, Mr. Hale, high praise.”

“You guys seem close,” Derek said diplomatically, and Erica smiled with a little sigh.

“Yeah, Stiles is great. And oh my _god_ , he grew up hot. I had the biggest crush on him in high school.”

Derek frowned. Hmm.

* * *

There was almost nothing Derek loved more than routine, and he was pleased that his Sunday nights with Stiles already felt familiar. Stiles made nachos, while Derek brought beer and got to sit on his ridiculously comfortable couch.

“So I was kind of lying when I said that I Googled you,” Stiles started. “I mean, I did a little, but then it felt sorta weird because I _know_ you, and all that means is that you’re gonna have to give me your baseball resume yourself.”

Derek snorted. “What do you want to know?”

“You—well, you obviously went to college, duh, since that’s where you met Erica. Did you ever think about entering the draft after high school?”

Derek shrugged. “No, not really. My mom was really adamant about me going to college, and it’s hard to pass up a free ride to UCLA.”

“And then you got drafted.”

“And then I got drafted,” Derek confirmed. “After my junior year.”

“First round, pick number _six_ ,” Stiles said, with a little grin, and Derek rolled his eyes. “I do know that. Then what?”

“Well, you know there’s only a few months left in the season after the draft, so I went to the rookie league in Arizona. I spent the _next_ year going between AA and AAA in the minors, and then last year I got called up to the majors.”

“Wow.”

Derek took a long drag off his beer and drew one leg up underneath himself on the couch. “Wow, what?”

“That’s just—really impressive. Most guys spend several years in the minors, not just _one_. And then you had a great season last year, in your rookie year.”

Derek shrugged, a little uncomfortable. “I guess.”

Stiles snorted and leaned forward to grab a nacho, breaking the long string of cheese with his tongue. “ _I guess_ , he says. I’m getting the impression that you’re uncomfortable with praise, which means I’m gonna praise you _all_ the fucking time, I hope you know.”

“Do you want me to talk about how successful your books are?” he shot back, and Stiles grimaced.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” he said, waving his hand as he took a swig of his own beer. “So…does that mean you didn’t graduate college?”

Derek huffed a little laugh. “No, I haven’t. Not yet, anyway.”

“Not _yet_?”

“I’m taking online classes to finish,” he admitted. “Just one a semester. I should graduate in December, if all goes well.”

“Whoa, really?” Stiles asked, his eyes wide. “What’s your major?”

“History.”

Stiles snorted. “Wow. Not even a bullshit phys ed major or anything,” he said, and Derek laughed.

“Nah. I like history. I tried to take extra classes while I was there, since I knew I was probably gonna leave after junior year.”

“How in the world do you find the time? That’s amazing.”

Derek shrugged. “Like I said, I like it. One class at a time isn’t too bad. And it—I mean, I definitely want to get my degree because it’s not like I’m gonna play baseball forever. But it’s also really important to my mom that I finish.”

“So you two are close then?” he asked, and Derek hesitated. Stiles must have sensed his discomfort because he sat back in the corner of a couch with a little laugh. “You can talk about your mom all you want if you let me talk about my dad, okay?”

Derek smiled and nodded. “Yeah, we are close. And my older sister, Laura.”

“And they live in New York, right?”

“Yep.”

They chatted a little bit more, about Stiles’ progress on his draft over the past week and Derek’s workouts, but Derek couldn’t wait much longer before bringing up what had been on his mind.

“I just gotta say this, okay?” he said. This was probably going to be awkward, but…Erica was important. He braced his hands on his thighs and took a deep breath.

“Uh, _okay_ ,” Stiles said, drawing out the word. His eyebrows were raised. “What is it?”

“I, uh, I know you and Erica are close. But you know she’s seeing someone, right? Boyd, he’s my best friend.”

Stiles furrowed his brow for a second, then he burst out laughing. “Dude,” he exclaimed. “Seriously, you think I’m interested in Erica?”

Derek flushed. Clearly he was wrong, but… “You two are very physically affectionate,” he said lamely, and Stiles snorted.

“Oh my god, _so_ many things to say to that. Okay, first of all, men and women can be friends. Also, I’m not that guy, I’m not a dick. I would never cheat _or_ knowingly help someone else cheat. And last but _certainly_ not least, Erica’s not exactly my type. I’m gay.”

Oh.

_Oh_.

Holy shit.

“Oh,” Derek said dumbly. He didn’t say anything else, but his facial expression must not have been great because Stiles frowned.

“If you’re gonna start spewing some homophobic bullshit, you can leave right now,” he said, his mouth set in a hard line as he jerked his chin toward the door, and Derek winced.

“No! God, no, not at all. I just—I was just surprised, that’s all. I swear. Sorry.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, clearly still a little wary.

“I, uh, have a cousin who’s gay,” Derek tried, then immediately regretted it. He closed his eyes and wished that he could rewind the last 10 seconds. “Shit, that’s as bad as saying you have a black friend, huh?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Stiles said, grinning now. “But I’ll forgive you. You know, since you have a gay friend now and all.”

Derek groaned, tipping his head back against the couch as Stiles laughed. “Okay, I’m gonna stop talking now.”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”

“Sorry. Again.”

“It’s fine, really. I’m kinda glad it came up because I didn’t really know how to tell you? Which is super dumb. I mean, I didn’t think you would…care or anything, but you know,” Stiles said, shrugging. “Athletes can be weird.”

“Not the ones I’m friends with,” Derek said carefully. “But yeah, I get that.”

“Do you know any gay players?” he asked, and Derek shook his head.

“No,” he said immediately. “Definitely not.”

“There must be, though, right?” Stiles pressed. “I mean, it would be statistically impossible if there weren’t.”

Derek paused, his mind whirring. Huh. “Yeah…yeah, I guess,” he said slowly. “I’ve never thought about it that way before.”

“Glad I could expand your worldview,” Stiles said cheerfully, patting him on the shoulder. “Ooh, it’s about to start. The remote’s on your side, buddy, so get to it.”

Derek obediently changed the channel to HBO, just as the theme song started, but he didn’t get immediately sucked in like he usually did—he was too busy thinking about what Stiles had said. 

* * *

12:18 PM **Stiles:** I *almost* bought a Dodgers hat today. But then I didn’t.  
  
**Stiles:** Because they suck.  
  
**Stiles:** And the Mets rule.  
  
**Derek:** *angry face emoji*  
  
**Stiles:** Those eyebrows aren’t dramatic enough, that’s not a very realistic self-portrait.

* * *

The following Sunday, Derek paused on his way out the front door and twisted to face Stiles. “I have a, uh, a thing next Sunday, and I might be late.”

“Okay,” he said easily. “You wanna reschedule to another night? I can just record it.”

“No,” Derek said hurriedly. Somehow, without him really even realizing it, their Sunday nights had become the best part of his week. “No, it’s fine. I probably won’t be late, but I wanted to let you know just in case.”

“Yeah, sure. So what’s up? You got a hot date? I don’t appreciate being second fiddle, you know,” Stiles said with a smirk, propping his hands on his hips, and Derek rolled his eyes.

“No. I…it’s embarrassing,” he said finally, and Stiles grinned.

“Well, now you _really_ have to tell me.”

Derek sighed. “I signed a deal with Under Armour a couple months ago, and I’m doing a photo shoot.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, cracking up. “You’re gonna have to pose shirtless, that’s fantastic.”

Derek paused, his hand going to his stomach reflexively. “I—I hadn’t even thought of that.”

Stiles laughed even harder and clutched at the door frame. “Holy shit, your face is priceless.”

“Do you really that’s uh, what they’re gonna do?”

“Uh, _yes_. How did you not think about that?”

“I thought it would just be baseball!” he protested. “As in, you know, my _profession_.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “To Under Armour, your _profession_ is being hot enough to sell underwear or whatever.”

Derek ignored the spots of heat on his own cheeks and huffed. “I’m leaving now.”

“Bye, hot stuff!” Stiles yelled after him, and Derek flipped him off over his shoulder.


	2. February

Stiles threw open the door before Derek could even knock and stood there with a wide grin on his face. “So was I right?”

“Right about what?” Derek asked, feigning innocence as he pushed past Stiles into the house. Stiles followed him and flopped down into the corner of the couch, his arm spread over the back.

“Right about your _photo shoot_. They made you pose shirtless, didn’t they?”

Derek sighed and dropped his bag onto the coffee table. “Do you know how weird it is to have _makeup_ on your abs?” he said finally, and Stiles cracked up, doubling over.

“No, I can’t say that I do,” he said, practically wheezing for breath as he fought through another round of giggles. “Please, enlighten me.”

“I’d rather not,” Derek said, wrinkling his nose. He poked Stiles in the side on his way to sit down, and he squirmed away, batting at his hand. “Holy shit, you’re ticklish.”

Stiles froze, and Derek hesitated for only a split-second before launching at him, pinning him with one hand while the other mercilessly tickled his ribs.

“Uncle!” Stiles cried out immediately, trying to shove Derek off. “I’m just a puny writer, this is so not a fair fight.”

Derek rolled his eyes but moved off of him to sit at the other end of the couch. “You’re not puny,” he said, his gaze sliding over Stiles’ broad shoulders. But his considering stare probably lasted a few seconds too long, and he looked away, his cheeks flushing.

Stiles ran a hand through his hair and took an exaggerated deep breath. “Man. You’re gonna need to stop doing that.”

“No promises,” Derek said, and Stiles kicked his thigh with his foot.

“So besides the blatant objectification, how was it?”

Derek shrugged. “Fine, I guess. It was weird. Really weird, actually, but whatever.”

“Do you know what they’re gonna do with the pictures?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, I, for one, hope we get a giant billboard on the PCH,” Stiles said, grinning, and Derek winced.

“Good god, I hope not.”

“So what’s in the bag?” Stiles asked, jerking his chin toward the drawstring bag still on the coffee table.

“Oh, nothing,” he said with a shrug. “It was supposed to be for you, but I decided to save it for people who don’t make fun of me.”

Stiles snorted as he reached for it. “Please. Like there are any of _those_ people around. You’re stuck with me, dude, I’m the best you’re gonna get.”

“You are ridiculous,” Derek said, but he didn’t disagree.

Stiles rifled through the bag. “Wow, really? UnderArmour stuff? This is for me?”

“They gave me a bunch,” Derek explained. “And some of it’s too small—”

“So you take pity on your puny writer friend,” Stiles finished, grinning. “Thanks, dude.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “We’re the same height.”

“Yeah, but I don’t weigh 200 pounds,” he said absently as he continued to rummage through the bag. “Seriously, though, thanks. This is awesome. The perks of being your friend are _already_ coming to fruition.”

Derek huffed, but Stiles was genuinely smiling at him and he knew he didn’t mean anything bad by it. He’d never had a friend like Stiles, someone that he so immediately connected with. Even Erica took a little while to become close with, and while Derek was very thankful to have Boyd as a teammate and a friend, it was still different somehow.

“Yeah,” he said, after way too long a pause. “You’re welcome.” 

* * *

8:23 PM **Stiles:** Oh my god, I am on a date with this guy, and it is the *worst*. He is mansplaining.  
  
**Stiles:** He tried to talk to me about publishing, of all things, and I'm just like  *flat line emoji*  
  
**Stiles:** And he seems to have NO IDEA that I find him completely dull.  
  
**Derek:** Well, he's probably getting the picture if you're texting.  
  
**Stiles:** No, he's in the bathroom. I'm trying to enjoy my 90 seconds of freedom.  
  
**Derek:** You should just leave.  
  
**Stiles:** Ugh I know. That's bad date karma, though.  
  
**Derek:** What goes around comes around.  
  
**Derek:** But hopefully not with this guy.  
  
**Stiles:** The dude's got jokes!!  *praise hands emoji*  
  
**Stiles:** Oh, shit, he's coming back. Pray for me.

* * *

Derek yawned and rested his head against the back of the couch. Game of Thrones was over, and this was about the time he usually left, but he’d had three beers and should probably wait a little bit longer before he drove home. Stiles was in the same tipsy boat, it seemed, with the loose-limbed way he was slouched on the couch, his socked feet propped up on the coffee table.

“So you survived your shitty date, I see,” Derek said, and Stiles snorted.

“Yeah, barely. But whatever, it happens,” he said, shrugging. “That’s what you get with Tinder, I guess.”

Derek grimaced, and Stiles must have caught it because he laughed. “Yeah, I guess you can’t really do the whole online dating thing, huh? You’d probably just get fans or people who wanted to date you because you’re rich or whatever.”

“Been there, done that already,” he said, scratching at his beard, and Stiles’ eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Long story. But I wouldn’t want to do it anyway, believe me. It sounds awful.”

“Yeah, I don’t really like it myself. I’m kinda more of a relationship person, and it seems like most of the guys on there are looking for…not that.”

“That sucks,” Derek said genuinely, and Stiles shrugged.

“New city, hard to meet new people, whatever. So what about you, man?”

“What _about_ me?”

“Erica says you have girls hanging off you all the time. I mean, obviously,” Stiles said, gesturing, and Derek rolled his eyes, trying to hide his blush.

“That’s a little dramatic.”

“She also said you don’t really date anyone.”

“That’s…true,” he said slowly, unsure about where this was going.

“So what, then? Lots of one-night-stands? Fuck buddies? Friends with benefits?”

Derek couldn’t hold back his look of distaste. “Uh, no, not really.”

“So…no one?”

Suddenly uncomfortable, Derek shifted on the couch. “Yeah,” he said, shrugging as he attempted to look natural. “I guess.”

Stiles nodded, his lower lip caught between his teeth. “Cool, cool.”

“What?” Derek challenged. “You think I’m some sort of freak?”

Stiles recoiled, his face drawn tight, and held both hands out. “God, no, of course not. What the hell, dude?”

“Uh, sorry,” Derek said, with a humorless chuckle. He cracked his neck. “Habit, I guess. There’s basically no faster way to alienate yourself from a locker room than to admit that you aren’t getting laid all the time.”

Stiles grimaced. “No, that’s—totally cool with me, dude. I promise. Obviously.”

It went silent for a minute and Derek avoided eye contact, instead staring at the blue and gray stripes on Stiles’ socks.

“I just have so many questions,” Stiles blurted out, and Derek couldn’t hold back the laugh.

“You can ask.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, pulling one leg up underneath himself and turning toward Derek. “So…wait. Are you drunk? Am I taking verbally taking advantage of you right now?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “No. I’m not drunk. You’re fine.”

“We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to,” he said quickly, and Derek believed him.

“No, it’s—it’s fine.”

“Okay,” he said, tilting his head. “Are you asexual? Demi?”

“I don’t know what any of that means,” Derek admitted, and Stiles laughed, not unkindly.

“Well, asexual is just like it sounds. No real sexual attraction or interest at all.”

Derek thought about it. He liked to jack off—kind of a lot, actually—and he was definitely not _uninterested_ in sex. His cheeks warmed, and he cleared his throat. “Uh, no. Don’t think that’s it.”

Stiles laughed and poked him in the side, as if he knew exactly what Derek had been thinking about. Hell, he probably did. Derek just rolled his eyes. “What was the other one?”

“Demisexual. It means that you don’t really have an urge to have sex with someone unless you know them really well.”

Derek tilted his head. Huh. “That—yeah, maybe. That’s a thing?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, with a little laugh. “Haven’t you heard, _everything_ is a thing.”

“I just thought I was weird,” Derek admitted.

“I mean, I’m not gonna argue with you on that point, but it’s not because of your sexuality.”

Derek huffed and shoved him over, but Stiles went easily, laughing.

“I need more water before I drive home,” he said, carefully getting to his feet. “You want some?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said as he stretched out fully, taking up Derek’s vacated space. “I love that you’re not a guest anymore and you can just get stuff for yourself.”

“You’re such a charming host,” Derek called out over his shoulder, and he ignored Stiles’ snort. He grabbed two glasses from the cabinet by the sink and filled them at the fridge, slowly drinking one before he filled it again.

“Okay,” Stiles said once he came back, “well, you’re one to talk because I have literally never seen your apartment.”

Derek shrugged. “Come over next Sunday then.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure. Why?”

“I dunno,” Stiles said. “I just picture you living in like, the bat cave or something.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Completely normal apartment, sorry to disappoint.”

“I’m gonna make you be such a good host.”

“Fine, but you better bring the beer.”

“Deal,” he said with a yawn. “Whatcha got going on this week?”

“Nothing special. Training, reading for class, the usual. Why, you wanna do something?”

“Aw,” Stiles said, smirking, “is once a week not enough?”

Derek sighed. “Okay—”

“I’m just kidding. You got something in mind?”

“Batting cages?” he asked, and he grinned when Stiles’ eyes lit up.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, sure. You said before that you liked to go.”

“But how much time do you actually spend in the batting cages? You’re a pitcher.”

“Not that much,” Derek admitted. “But I still have to do it, and I’ve kinda been slacking off.”

“That’d be awesome. When?”

Derek tipped his head back, thinking about his workout schedule for the week. “How about Wednesday, late afternoon?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, nodding. “That should work. I have a meeting at two, but I should be back by four.”

“Then it’s a d—plan,” Derek said, getting to his feet a little too quickly in an attempt to cover up his near-misspeak.

“You sure you’re good to go, dude?”

Derek smiled. “Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks.”

* * *

Derek shifted into park in front of Stiles’ house and honked. He didn’t have to wait long before Stiles, in a short-sleeved shirt and basketball shorts, was outside, locking his front door and jogging down the walkway toward the car.

“Nice UnderArmour,” he said once Stiles was inside, and he laughed.

“Yeah, well, I have inside connections, you see. And thanks for picking me up, dude,” he said, and Derek shrugged.

“It was on the way.”

“You’re so sweet,” Stiles deadpanned, then ran his hand over the dash. “All right, this is a pretty badass car.”

Derek made a careful left hand turn at the end of Stiles’ street and headed toward the highway. “It was the, uh, the only thing I bought with my signing bonus.”

“That’s a pretty small percentage of six million bucks.”

Derek coughed a little in surprise and raised his eyebrows at Stiles behind his sunglasses. “I thought you said you didn’t Google me.”

“Actually, I said that I did a _little_ bit. Gotta work on your listening comprehension there, buddy.”

Derek rolled his eyes. He didn’t really like talking about money, for various uncomfortable reasons, but Stiles didn’t seem to care at all. Plus, Derek got the impression that with how successful his books were, he wasn’t exactly hurting for cash.

They hit traffic on the 101, surprise, surprise, and Stiles groaned as they glided to a stop. “Man, sometimes I hate LA.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” he said, grimacing, and Stiles laughed.

“Are you happy you ended up here? Not that you had much of a choice, that is.”

Derek hummed. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, it’s unfortunate that my mom and sister live all the way in New York, but I was used to LA after college, and Erica lives here, obviously. And I’m glad I ended up with the Dodgers. They really wanted me, and it’s a good team, better than the other ones who could’ve drafted me.”

“I’m gonna take some offense to that,” Stiles said, holding up a hand, “because I’m pretty sure the Mets had, like…the eighth pick that year? I think? You could have been a Met! That would’ve been amazing.”

“Yeah, but—”

Derek cut himself off with a cough. It probably wasn’t a good idea to say _but then I probably wouldn’t have met you_. “Uh, what about you? Why’d you move here?”

Stiles paused. He folded one leg underneath himself and twisted to face Derek, leaning back against the door. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

Derek frowned, but he nodded. “Yeah, of course.”

“So, no one knows this,” Stiles started, licking his lips, “because I didn’t want to jinx it. But there’s interest in turning my books into a series of movies.”

“Wow, really?” Derek said, taking his attention away from the stop-and-go traffic to stare at Stiles for a second. “That’s amazing.”

Stiles ducked his head, but he was smiling. “Yeah. I went to college in New York, right, but afterward I didn’t really know where I wanted to live. I had an apartment there, but I also spent a lot of time back in Beacon Hills with my dad. I was lucky that because I was writing, I could pretty much live anywhere. But then I was flying here all the time for meetings and stuff, and so my agent suggested moving out here, if I wanted to. It’s getting pretty close—there are a few production companies in some kind of bidding war.”

“Holy shit.”

Stiles laughed, rubbing one hand down his face. “I know, right? It’s crazy. It’s pretty common to sell the film rights to your book, but those rarely get made into actual movies. I haven’t done that, though, and right now, there are several people that actually want to green light the movie, apparently—I don’t really know, my agent handles all the details.”

“That’s so cool. Are you gonna write the screenplay?” he asked, and Stiles nodded.

“Hopefully, anyway. That’s the plan.”

“Wow,” Derek said again. “That’s—that’s really impressive. Was that what your meeting today was for?”

“Yeah,” he said with a little laugh. “Well, it was with my agent. She’s completely ruthless, it’s amazing. I’m half in love with her and half terrified of her.”

“Interesting combination. Maybe don’t let her meet my sister.”

Stiles laughed. “Laura, right? So I’m guessing she’s intense?”

“Yeah, she’s a workaholic lawyer, and she takes way too much interest in meddling in my life. She’s great, though, when she’s not being annoying as hell.”

Stiles sighed, sounding a little wistful. “Sometimes I wish I had a sibling.”

Derek snorted. “Anytime you think that, let me know and I’ll tell you horror stories.”

He finally pulled off the highway, and Stiles sat up a little straighter, looking around. “Okay, you didn’t mention that we were going to the batting cages at _Dodger Stadium_.”

“Where else would I go?”

“I didn’t think it through!” Stiles yelped. “I’m wearing a _Mets_ _hat_.”

Derek smirked. “Yeah, you should probably take that off, they might not let you through the door. There’s an extra Dodgers hat in the back.”

“Oh, you asshole,” Stiles said, grumbling as he took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “You totally planned this.”

“I admit nothing.”

Stiles braced one hand on Derek’s shoulder as he twisted around to reach into the backseat, and he plopped the Dodgers hat on his head with a frown. “This feels sacrilegious.”

“You look fine, relax.”

Derek parked in the players’ lot and led Stiles through the building, nodding at and saying hi to the various people that he knew.

“That was Reggie Suarez!” Stiles hissed, after they passed by the locker room, and Derek bit back a laugh.

“Yes, I’m aware,” he whispered back. “He’s my teammate.”

“There’s way more back here than I thought,” Stiles said, craning his neck as they passed a hallway full of offices.

“I’ll give you a tour sometime,” Derek said absently. He led them all the way to the end of one of one of the corridors, where the batting cages were. They were empty except for Danny, who was taking off his batting gloves and tossing them in his bag.

“Hey, buddy,” Danny said with a grin, and Derek nodded back.

“Hey. Danny, this is my friend Stiles. Stiles, Danny Mahealani. He plays—”

“Third base,” Stiles finished, leaning forward to shake Danny’s hand when he offered it. “Nice to meet you, man.”

“Yeah, same,” he said, flashing the famous Danny dimples.

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest and then thwapped Derek on the chest with the back of one hand. “So what’s a dork like you doing around all these cool dudes?”

Danny laughed. “I like this kid,” he said. Stiles looked very proud of himself, and Derek rolled his eyes. Danny slung his bag over his shoulder and waved. “Bye, guys. See you around, Stiles.”

Derek dropped his own bag on the ground and rummaged through it for a bat and a pair of batting gloves, which he handed to Stiles. “Do you need the tee?” he asked with a straight face, and Stiles punched him in the shoulder.

“Shut up, you ass. I bet I can hit better than you,” he said. Derek just stared at him, tilting his head, and Stiles made a face. “Okay, maybe not. Shut up.”

“You said that already,” Derek said as he turned on the pitching machine.

“Yeah, well I _really_ meant it.”

The balls started coming automatically, and Stiles yelped. “Be careful,” Derek said, yanking him backward. “Rule number one: don’t get hit by the ball.”

“Aw,” he said, feigning happiness with his hand on his heart. “You _do_ care.”

“I don’t feel like going to the ER,” Derek corrected, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Okay, here we go,” he said, swinging the bat over his shoulder and getting into position. He paused and let one ball go by, then twisted to look at Derek. “You’re staring at me!”

“What else am I supposed to do? Would you like me to turn around?” he said dryly, and he couldn’t hold back a snort when Stiles nodded emphatically.

“Yes, please. I mean, I’m gonna embarrass myself nonetheless, but might as well delay the inevitable a little bit.”

“I’m not gonna turn around. Just hit the damn ball.”

Stiles huffed, but he obediently turned back to the plate. He hit each of the next five balls, pretty solidly, and Derek was impressed. “You’re not bad,” he admitted, and Stiles snorted.

“Wow. Such high praise,” he said, hitting the next one with a nice _crack_.

“Really. Your stance is fine. Try keeping your back elbow a little higher,” he suggested, and Stiles listened, biting his lip in concentration. He hit several more, then stepped back and undid the velcro on his gloves.

“Okay, big guy, show us how the _professionals_ do it.”

“I’m not a professional at this,” Derek reminded him, taking the proffered bat. “Far from it.”

He took a deep breath and settled into his stance. It took him a little while to get used to the crack of the wood bats instead of the _ping_ from the metal bats they used in college, but by now he was used to the different feel.

“You’re pretty good,” Stiles said frankly, and Derek didn’t try to hit the next ball harder, he _didn’t_. “Have you ever hit a home run? In the majors, I mean.”

“Not yet,” Derek admitted. “I was a decent hitter in college, but now there’s just no time to practice. I hit a couple in the minors, though.”

“Plus, they probably never give you the chance to actually swing,” Stiles said, and Derek nodded.

“Yeah, only when the bases are empty. Otherwise I’m bunting,” he said. Any time there were runners on base when it was his turn to bat, Derek was supposed to intentionally put the ball in play right in front of the plate, letting the other runners advance while he got thrown out. The coaches tended not to trust the pitchers to do anything of actual importance with the bats in their hands, which was probably a smart decision.

Bunting was what he was _supposed_ to be working on, so he switched to that, trying to get the ball to go in different directions. 

“Bunting is boring,” Stiles announced after a few minutes, and Derek snorted.

“Yeah, no shit,” he said, stepping back. “You should try, though. It’s harder than it looks.”

“Okay, okay,” he said as they switched places. He got into his normal stance and then froze. “Oh, god, I have no idea how to do this.”

Derek laughed and tugged at the back of Stiles’ shirt to pull him away from the line of balls coming out of the pitching machine. “Don’t worry about the whole swing like I do. Just hold the bat like this,” he said, adjusting Stiles’ position so that he was crouched down and holding the bat in front of him. “Keep the bat tilted up, not horizontal, and be careful with your top hand.”

Stiles kept the position as he inched forward back to the plate, but he completely missed the first ball he tried to hit. “That was fantastic,” Derek said, laughing, and Stiles glared at him. But his deadpan face broke after a second, and he was laughing, too, as he got set to try again. “Try to hit the ball with the top part of the bat, not the sweet spot like you normally would.”

Stiles got it this time, successfully tapping the ball about 18 inches in front of him, and he lifted both arms over his head with a triumphant cry. “Yes! Now I can do it, I can be a pro ball player.”

“Yeah, okay,” Derek said dryly. “Try to do it again.”

Stiles gripped the bat hard, the ropey muscles of his forearms standing out in stark relief, and Derek clenched his eyes shut. He had watched literally hundreds of other guys play baseball before, and he’d never even given any of them a second look, let alone _admired their forearms_ , what the fuck.

He moved behind Stiles instead but then was immediately distracted by the curve of his ass in those basketball shorts and the bunching of his calf muscles as he swung. Derek sighed and lifted his gaze. _No place was safe, fuck_.

Finally, once Stiles was complaining about tired arms and Derek was satisfied with his progress for the day, they packed up and left.

“You hungry?” Stiles asked as they walked back to the car. “Wanna grab some dinner?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, dropping his bag in the trunk. “There’s a pretty good taco place not far from here, you wanna go there?”

“Awesome.”

They arrived at the restaurant right in the middle of the dinner rush, but since it was a weekday they were still able to sneak into a back corner table, small enough that their knees knocked under the table. The waiter showed up quickly, and Derek let Stiles order first while he quickly skimmed the menu.

“Um,” Derek said, trying to make a decision. “I’ll have the pescado, calabacitas, and tinga del pollo, thanks.”

“Do you speak Spanish?” Stiles asked, after the waiter had left. “You have a good accent.”

Derek shrugged. “I took it in high school and a little bit in college, plus there are lots of baseball players who speak Spanish, obviously. I’m not anywhere close to fluent or anything, but I can have a passable conversation. Especially if it’s about baseball,” he said, and Stiles laughed.

“I’m terrible with languages. Well,” he amended, “except English. Pretty good with that, I guess.”

“Did you always want to be a writer?” Derek asked, then sucked down a good half of his water glass.

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. Even when I was a little kid, I was always writing, just dumb stories. I’m sure my dad has them saved somewhere, unfortunately. I wrote the first book in the series when I was in college, just in my free time, and I was lucky enough to know somebody who knew an editor.”

“It’s not luck if it’s good,” Derek reminded him, and Stiles rolled his eyes, though there was a slight blush staining his cheeks. He looked like he was about to say something, but then he shut his mouth and jerked his chin.

“You’ve got a fan approaching, two o’clock,” he said lowly, and Derek winced. Unfortunately, there were some disadvantages to going out to dinner right by Dodger Stadium. He _liked_ the fans and was genuinely appreciative that they were supportive, but he had no idea what to say to them, usually, and tended to get uncomfortable when they fawned over him.

So he pasted on a smile and twisted in his seat, just as a young girl was walking up to their table. She was maybe 15 or 16, clutching a Dodgers hat in her hand. “Hi,” she whispered. “You’re Derek Hale, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m so sorry,” she started, “I would never do this, but you’re my favorite player, I have your jersey, actually, and—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, softening his smile, “totally fine. Would you like me to sign your hat?”

“Yeah,” she said sheepishly, holding it out along with a black marker. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Derek said as he signed the brim.

“Good luck this season,” she said, smiling genuinely when he handed it back, and he smiled back.

“Thanks.”

Their plates had arrived while he was talking to the girl, and Derek turned eagerly back toward his food. He was starving, and it smelled really good.

“I wonder why you’re her favorite,” Stiles said, his eyes wide in mock surprise, and Derek rolled his eyes.

“Shut up,” he said, kicking Stiles’ shin under the table. “Just eat your food.”

Derek regretted saying that almost immediately, when Stiles dug into his taco with a fairly pornographic moan and then _licked_ at a drip of salsa that was sliding down his arm. Jesus Christ.

Derek sighed and started to eat his own food, keeping all inappropriate noises inside his mouth where they belonged. The tacos _were_ delicious, and it was silent for a few minutes as they ate.

“Did you play baseball in high school?” Derek asked finally. “You have a decent swing.”

Stiles shook his head. “Nah. I mean, I played t-ball and little league or whatever when I was a kid. But then I, uh…baseball was kinda my mom and I’s thing, you know? After she died, I didn’t really want to play anymore. It actually took me like a year to even be able to watch a game on TV.”

Derek didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” he offered, and Stiles gave him a sad smile with a little shrug.

“You know how it is. But I played lacrosse in high school. Much less cool,” he said with a smirk, and Derek chuckled. “But my friends and I would go to the batting cages in college sometimes, just for fun. Anyway. Tell me something about your dad. Were you guys close?”

Derek nodded and took another bite while he thought about it. “Yeah, definitely. He, uh, he really loved gardening. We had a huge garden in the backyard, all different kinds of flowers and vegetables and stuff. I only have an apartment now, obviously, but eventually I want a house with a garden.”

“That’s cool,” Stiles said, smiling genuinely as he wiped his hands and mouth with a wad of napkins. “Holy fuck, that was good. We’re gonna have to come back here.”

Derek didn’t disagree.

The waiter dropped the bill on the table a few minutes later, and Derek reached for it immediately, lifting his hips so he could fish his wallet out of his pocket.

“I—this is awkward, right, but you don’t have to pay, you know?” Stiles said, fiddling with his water glass. “That’s not why we’re friends or whatever.”

Derek busied himself by counting out cash from his wallet, including a nice tip. “I know,” he said finally. “You can get the next one.”

“Deal,” Stiles said, looking relieved.

The drive back was mostly quiet, even with Stiles fiddling with the radio and changing the station every two minutes. They avoided the worst of the traffic somehow, and it seemed way too soon when Derek coasted to a stop in front of Stiles’ house. Stiles was still wearing the Dodgers hat as he got out of the car, and Derek didn’t have the heart to remind him that his Mets hat was in the backseat.

“Thanks, buddy,” Stiles said, bracing one hand on the top of the car and crouching down a little to see through the window. “See you Sunday?”

“Yeah. I’ll text you the address.”

Stiles gave him an awkward finger gun gesture, and Derek snorted in spite of himself. It was too dark to see very well, but Derek could still track Stiles’ familiar silhouette as he made his way up the front walk and into his house. He sighed and leaned back against the headrest, closing his eyes. This was becoming a problem.

* * *

Derek spent 90 minutes cleaning his apartment on Sunday afternoon, and he put a little more thought than normal into picking out his shirt. Not that any of it mattered because this _wasn’t_ a date, just their regular Sunday night hangout. No big deal.

Still, his heart jumped when there was a knock at the door, and he hastily wiped his hands on a kitchen towel. He forced himself to walk slowly toward the door, then opened it. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Stiles said, grinning. “Pretty fancy building. Your _doorman_ had to let me up.”

Derek rolled his eyes at him and reached for the six-pack that he was holding out.

“Wait, why are your hands all flour-y?” Stiles asked suspiciously, not waiting for a response before he pushed past into the apartment.

Derek blinked. “Come on in,” he said to the now-empty doorway, and Stiles laughed at him from the kitchen. Derek followed him and set the six-pack on the kitchen island.

“While on one hand I’m sad you didn’t make nachos, because nachos are totally our thing, I’m too distracted by the fact that you’re apparently making _homemade_ pizza,” he said, pointing accusingly at the dough on the counter and already looking way too at home in Derek’s kitchen.

“It’s a lot easier than it seems,” Derek said, but Stiles just scoffed at him.

“So you play baseball _and_ you can cook?” he asked, hopping up on the counter and leaning back against the cabinet dramatically. “Be still my heart.”

Derek sighed. “I can cook a _couple_ of things,” he clarified. “Homemade pizza just so happens to be one of them.”

“How the hell did that happen?” Stiles asked, reaching for the freshly-grated mozzarella cheese in the little bowl before Derek swatted his hand away.

“One of my college teammates, his family owned a pizza place,” he said as he picked up the rolling pin again.

“Can you throw it up in the air?”

“No,” Derek said glumly, and Stiles laughed.

“So I take it you’ve tried.”

“It’s not as easy as it looks,” he protested, and Stiles slid down from the counter with a grin.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Then I’m gonna go snoop around your apartment!” Stiles said over his shoulder, and Derek rolled his eyes. Now he was glad he cleaned the bedrooms, though, just in case Stiles poked his head in there.

Derek tried not to think about Stiles judging his apartment while he finished rolling out the pizzas and laying them out carefully on the baking sheets.

“I like your place,” Stiles said, wandering back into the kitchen once he was evidently done with his snooping. “Much less bat cave than I was expecting.”

“Thanks. I like it, too.” He found the apartment a little under a year ago, once the Dodgers told him that he’d likely spend the entire year with the big league team and not get bounced around to the various minor leagues in different cities. It was spacious but not _too_ big, and since he let Laura and his mom decorate it—he didn’t really have an opinion on interior design, anyway, and he was busy with the season starting by then—it was full of cozy furniture and warm neutral colors.

“So what kinda pizzas are we having?” Stiles asked, and Derek gestured toward the set up of ingredients on the island.

“Make-your-own.”

“Okay, this is amazing,” Stiles said as he pushed up his sleeves and went over to the sink to wash his hands. “I think we have to have dinners at your place every week now, if you’re gonna cook for me like this.”

Derek huffed. “Shut up and make your damn pizza.”

Derek stuck to the classic sausage with green peppers and mushrooms while Stiles added every single ingredient onto his pizza. Derek winced at the thought of some of the combinations—olives and pineapple, _yuck_ —but Stiles seemed pretty excited about it. And they managed without starting an actual food fight, but that was only because Derek didn’t retaliate when Stiles threw a piece of pepperoni at him.

While Derek slid the pizzas in the oven, Stiles poked around the kitchen. His gaze landed on a jar next to the fridge, and his eyes lit up. “Oh my god, did you _bake_?” he asked, opening the glass container, and Derek flushed.

“They’re just peanut butter cookies.”

“My mom _loved_ to bake,” Stiles said, his face falling a little. “But I never really got to learn from her, I was too young.”

“This was my mom’s recipe, which came from _her_ mom, I think. I can show you some time.”

“Can I have one?”

“Sure.”

“You can’t yell at me for eating dessert before dinner because I’m a grownup,” he said, the words muffled through a mouthful of cookie crumbs. “Holy shit, these are delicious.”

Stiles rummaged through a drawer for the bottle opener while Derek went back into his bedroom. He came back with the Mets cap, which he plopped on Stiles’ head as he passed.

“My hat!” he said delightedly, looking up at Derek from underneath the brim. “I knew you stole it.”

“Couldn’t resist,” Derek said dryly. “I’ll use to to stay incognito when I go around town.”

“That’s actually a good idea, you should do that.”

Derek snorted. “Yeah, right. The Mets suck.”

Stiles puffed up and looked like he was about to protest, but thankfully the ding of the oven timer distracted him. There were just a few minutes before Game of Thrones was supposed to start, so Derek quickly sliced up the pizzas and brought them into the living room, Stiles following with drinks and napkins and plates.

Derek had to shush Stiles for moaning and groaning during the theme song—Derek really loved the title sequence and didn’t like when it was interrupted—but he was happy that Stiles apparently liked the pizza. He refused to try Stiles’ terrible concoction, but he reluctantly handed over one of his own slices anyway.

They paused HBO once the show was over to clean up, and Stiles insisted on taking the dishes to the dishwasher, at least. He came back with bulging cheeks and a bright grin, smelling suspiciously of peanut butter.

Before Derek pressed play on the next show, he rubbed a hand over his mouth and tried to look natural. “Can I, uh, ask you a question?”

Stiles swallowed and nodded. “Sure.”

“How old were you when you realized you were gay?”

He hummed, though to his credit he didn’t show any outward surprise at the question. “12, 13, maybe? About the time that all the other guys started talking about girls and how hot they were, and I just did _not_ get it. Why, do _you_ like dudes?” he asked, grinning, and Derek hesitated. He had a split second to decide whether to laugh it off or not, but his pause was long enough for Stiles to gasp.

“Holy shit, man, I was joking! I mean, not that it’s a _joke_ , obviously, but I—” Stiles cut himself off with a groan and dropped his head into his hands. “Wow, I am doing a super bad job at this. I…that was _not_ meant as an attempt to, you know, coerce you—”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupted. “It’s fine. Calm down.”

“It’s not _fine_!” he said shrilly. “Sexuality is a serious thing, and I basically just, like, _forced_ you to tell me—”

“I haven’t actually told you anything,” Derek interrupted again, and Stiles visibly relaxed. But something must have been showing on Derek’s face because just a few seconds later, Stiles froze.

“Holy shit, you like dudes!”

Derek hesitated. “I don’t know.”

Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Okay, forgive me because this will sound insensitive, and feel free to tell me to shove it. But how can you _not know_?”

Actually, as Derek sat there, looking at Stiles’ broad, loose-limbed sprawl and the curve of his bicep under the sleeve of his shirt, he was pretty sure he _did_ know. Not that he was going to say that.

“I…it’s complicated,” he said finally. “Maybe I’ll tell you the whole story sometime.”

Stiles nodded immediately. “Anytime, man.”

“But you can’t—please don’t tell anyone.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “No,” he drawled. “I’m compiling my notes for my Derek Hale tell-all. My publisher’s really excited about it.”

Derek huffed and shoved at his shoulder, making Stiles topple over onto his side on the couch, laughing. “You’re such an ass.”

“Of _course_ I won’t tell anyone, Der, come on,” Stiles said, shifting onto his back and stretching out with his feet in Derek’s lap. Derek raised an eyebrow but didn’t dislodge them. “Now can you please unpause it? I’m glad we stopped for your very touching partial coming out moment, but I’d like to watch Veep before I fall asleep right here on your very comfortable couch.”

Derek made a show of rolling his eyes as he reached for the remote, but Stiles was smiling softly at him and he knew that he was just joking. In all honestly, he was glad that Stiles wasn’t making a big deal about it.

Stiles managed to stay awake for the next half hour, but he was yawning and turning his face into the pillow by the time it was over. As much as Derek enjoyed the sight of sleepy Stiles on his couch, he leaned forward to turn off the TV and jostled Stiles’ legs a little as he did.

“I’m leaving for Arizona on Tuesday,” he said, and Stiles’ face fell.

“Oh, right, shit. I totally forgot, spring training,” he said. The equivalent of preseason for baseball, the tradition of spring training in the south started so that the northern teams could get outdoor practice time before the season started. But now all the teams participated, even warm-weather ones like the Dodgers, and either went to Arizona or Florida. “And you’re gonna be gone a while, right?”

He nodded. “Six weeks.”

Stiles sat up and picked at a thread on his jeans. “Erica and I were talking about it the other day, actually.”

“Oh, yeah?” Derek asked, trying not to look too excited. Erica had come to visit them in Arizona each of the previous two years, and if she was talking to Stiles about it, then maybe…

“Yeah. She already has her trip planned, for the second weekend of March, I think. She asked if I wanted to come with her.”

“You definitely should,” Derek said, probably failing at his _don’t-look-too-excited_ plan, but Stiles’ eyes brightened.

“Really? I went to Florida once, to see the Mets, but I’ve never been to Arizona. Ever, actually.”

Derek cleared his throat. “Yeah. And if you, uh—I rent a condo there, and it has a second bedroom. If you don’t want to bother with a hotel, I mean. You could stay with me.”

That sounded way more awkward than he was intending, but Stiles was grinning.

“Yeah, sure. That’d be great, thanks.”

“Could you, uh, do me one other favor?” Derek asked, moving Stiles’ feet off his lap so he could stand up. Stiles followed suit and stretched, nodding. “Since I’m gonna be gone for a while, would you mind just coming over every couple weeks to air the place out, and I don’t know, make sure nothing terrible has happened?”

“And water your plants?” Stiles said, his eyes twinkling as he jerked his chin toward the cluster of succulents in the window, and Derek huffed.

“It’s good that they don’t need much water because we are in a _drought_. Just give them a little bit of water if the soil looks really dry.”

“Of course I can do that. No problem.”

“I can pay you,” Derek offered, but Stiles just gave him an exasperated look.

“Yeah, right. We’re _friends_ , and friends do this kinda stuff for each other. It’s no big deal, seriously.”

“Well, thanks,” Derek said, holding out a single key on a ring. Stiles took it, and their fingers brushed for a split-second. “I appreciate it.”


	3. March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra-duper special thanks to [cobrilee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cobrilee/pseuds/Cobrilee). She's always helpful, but she went above and beyond with this chapter -- it would be a lot worse without her!

Some baseball players dreaded the monotony of spring training, the way that their entire lives revolved around the ballpark, with practice and meetings and training and more practice.

Derek _loved_ it.

He was a man of routine by nature, and while he didn’t exactly love being away from LA and living in a different place, he appreciated that every day was similar and that he only really had to worry about baseball. He knew that the sport was his job, of course, but it never felt more true than during spring training, and he wished he could go back and tell his younger self that playing baseball for a living was really as great as it seemed. It helped that the stresses of the season hadn’t really hit yet—plus, he knew he was assured of a roster spot this year, which also took some of the pressure off.

The ballpark was smaller, only about a quarter the size of Dodger Stadium, and the more intimate experience harkened back to college games. The fans there were the true diehards, and the whole experience felt jovial and casual in a way that the regular season didn’t always achieve, and it reminded Derek why he really loved the game.

The first two weeks were just for the pitchers and catchers, who needed a little extra preparation before the season started. Derek got to meet their new catcher, a veteran named Tim Patterson whom the Dodgers had acquired in a trade over the offseason and whose strength was supposedly team leadership and a true mastery of the game’s complexities.

“Everyone calls me Patty. Now let’s talk about that curveball,” he’d said, with a firm handshake as he instantly cemented Derek’s respect.

* * *

3:43 PM [](https://unsplash.com/photos/0-yy0iMe8VU)  
  
**Stiles:** They're still alive!  
  
**Derek:** I'm so impressed, truly.  
  
**Derek:** You've managed not to kill the most low-maintenance of plants.  
  
**Stiles:** Oh, should I have confessed my black thumb BEFORE I volunteered to take care of them?  
  
**Stiles:** Whoops.  
  
**Derek:**...

* * *

He missed Stiles, too, which he tried to not feel too silly about, considering that they’d only known each other for about 10 weeks. They texted, though, fairly often, and Stiles seemed eager, unbelievably, to hear all the mundane details of Derek’s days. He was making good progress on his next book, apparently, which he claimed he was able to do because no one was there to distract him.

Derek snorted at the accusation and started to type back a response when his phone started buzzing with a FaceTime request from Laura. He was stretched out on the couch icing his shoulder, and he strained for his iPad on the coffee table.

“Hello, my lovely little brother,” she said, and he rolled his eyes.

“I have at _least_ 50 pounds on you.”

“Still always my little brother. How’s Arizona?”

“The same as last year. And the year before that,” he said, smirking, and she sighed at him.

“See, this is exactly why I force you to FaceTime with me. You barely talk, so I have to get all my information from your eyebrows and your adorable blushes.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “How are _you_?”

“Well, I’ve been talking to Erica a lot,” she said, and Derek grimaced.

“That’s probably a bad idea.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. She told me that you have a new BFF! Stiles something? Why haven’t you told me about him, DerBear? I’m hurt, truly.”

Derek didn’t really have an answer to that. He and Laura were close, closer than most siblings even though she annoyed the shit out of him, and he had no idea why he hadn’t told her about Stiles. It was probably because she never let him get away with anything.

“I—”

“Do you know what _Erica’s_ theory is?”

Laura’s grin was obscenely wide now, and Derek sighed. “No. I don’t.” Erica had tried to talk to him about it a few times—and he was pretty sure he knew exactly what she was going to say—but he had so far been able to evade the conversation.

“She thinks you _like_ him!”

Derek hesitated and suddenly wished he wasn’t on video. He could hide from Laura just fine on the phone. “I—”

“You do!” she yelled triumphantly.

“I don’t _know_ ,” he insisted, but she just rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, right. You know what this reminds me of?” she asked, smirking, and Derek started shaking his head before she was even finished speaking.

“No.”

“Luke! From high school!” she said delightedly. “You told me that was just a phase! And was it even a phase, really? A phase-let, if you will? A mini phase.”

“Laura,” he growled. “I never should have told you about that. Nothing happened, anyway. And it was a long time ago.”

She hummed and waggled her eyebrows at him. “C’mon, Der. When was the last time you had sex?” she said plainly, and he groaned, tipping his head back.

“Laura!”

“Just answer the _ques_ -tion, Derek,” she said in a sing-song voice. “I’m a lawyer, it is my _job_ to get people to answer questions that they don’t want to answer, and I’m very good at it.”

He sighed—that was definitely true, and he’d learned even as a kid that it was often less painful to just give in. “It was a while ago,” he muttered. “Stiles told me he thinks I’m demisexual.”

Laura tilted her head. “Yeah, I could see that.”

“How the hell do you even know what that means?”

“Um,” she said, rolling her eyes—yeah, it was definitely genetic. “I am a young liberal person who has access to the internet, of course I know what that means. And that would make sense. If you’re not realizing your big gay love until now.”

Derek blinked at her. “I’m not touching that,” he said finally.

“Is he hot?”

“He’s very handsome,” he admitted. Laura hummed, and her eyes drifted away from Derek’s, as if she was focusing on something else. “Wait, what are you doing?”

“I’m looking him up!” she said, and Derek groaned. “You’re right, he’s super cute.”

“Okay, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“What’s the problem, Der? Just kiss him or ask him out or something!”

“I can’t do that,” he said quickly.

“And why not?”

“Uh, my _job_ , for one,” he said, and she rolled her eyes. “And I have no idea if he would be interested.”

“Based on what I’ve heard from Erica,” Laura said, laughing, “you really don’t have to worry about that.”

Derek pulled a face. “Okay, that is like third-hand information. What are we, in middle school?”

“Uh, _apparently_ , because you have a crush on your best friend, and we all have to talk about it behind your backs. Even _Boyd_ is on the text chain, Der.”

“Aw, no,” he said, frowning. “Really?”

She nodded. “This shit is serious.”

“But I don’t know if _I’m_ even interested,” Derek tried. It didn’t sound very convincing even to him, and judging from Laura’s raised eyebrows, she wasn’t buying it either. She tilted her head and gave him a faux-sympathetic look.

“It’s pretty simple, Der. Does he make your pants parts tingly?”

Derek rolled his eyes and jabbed at the “end” button to hang up on her. It was how most of their phone calls ended, honestly.

8:19 PM **Laura:** I'm sorry! I fully support whatever you do. I love you.  
  
**Derek:** I love you too.  
  
**Derek:** But you're still the worst.

* * *

“Good luck this season!”

Derek kept his bland smile pasted on and nodded as he handed back the baseball, then reached for the next one. Their ballpark and the surrounding training fields were set up for easy access to the fans, which meant Derek usually spent a good 20 minutes signing autographs and taking pictures before he went inside after any game or practice.

Something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, and Derek finished signing his name mechanically before breaking off from the line with an apologetic wave. He jogged over to the door to the clubhouse, where Stiles was standing with a woman and holding a very familiar baby. Derek snorted—trust Stiles to make an immediate friend.

Stiles’ hair was a little longer, the only difference Derek could spot, and he grinned brightly when he got closer. “Hey!”

“Hey,” he said dumbly. Stiles with a baby was a, uh, _sight_ , whoa. Derek wanted to hug him, strangely, but there were a lot of people around, and Stiles was holding an infant, who started babbling and reaching for Derek.

“Hello, Rosa,” he said, taking her out of Stiles’ arms, partly for his own sanity. Beth, Patty’s wife, smiled at Derek and rested a hand on her daughter’s back.

“Had a very nice time talking to your friend here, Derek. He’s a real baby whisperer, just like you.”

Derek laughed. He’d been invited over to Patty and Beth’s place for dinner a few times, and for some reason their nine-month-old really liked him. “As long as I’m still her favorite.”

“Hey,” Stiles protested, and Beth laughed. She reached for Rosa, and Derek gave her a quick kiss on the head before he let her go.

“Are you guys coming to dinner?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“Not tonight, unfortunately.”

Derek nodded and gestured to the field behind them. “Patty should be in shortly, he’s just finishing.”

“Which means another half hour,” Beth said with a smirk. “It was nice to meet you, Stiles. Derek, we’ll be expecting you for dinner again next week.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and Stiles patted Rosa on the back.

The two of them walked through the door side-by-side, and Stiles slung an arm over Derek’s shoulders, squeezing quickly before he let go. “Hey, buddy. Missed you.” His tone was teasing, but his smile was genuine and Derek had to slide his gaze away after a second.

“Well, that’s good to hear because I _definitely_ didn’t miss you,” he said, deadpan, and Stiles laughed. “How was the flight? Sorry I couldn’t pick you up.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s not like you were busy or anything,” he said dryly, gesturing to Derek’s uniform. “Did you pitch today?”

“Not in the game. Just a regular workout.”

“You said something about dinner tonight?” he asked, and Derek nodded.

“Yeah, with Boyd and Danny and some other people. That okay?”

“Sure,” Stiles said, then he grimaced. “Even though I probably smell like airplane.”

Derek snorted and paused with his hand on the door to the locker room. “You’re fine. I’ll try to be quick. Half hour or so?”

“Yeah, no prob,” Stiles said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the little lobby area. “Erica’s supposed to meet me in a little bit, anyway.”

Derek nodded and headed off to shower with a little spring in his step.

* * *

Derek, Stiles, and Erica stood around in the parking lot, enjoying the early evening sunshine and waiting for the others so they could leave for dinner. Danny came out first with Jackson, his customary wide grin on his face. “Hey! Stiles, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” he said, looking a little surprised. “Hey, dude.”

“Meet Jackson, the prettiest shortstop in the league,” Danny said. He slung his arm around Jackson’s neck and ruffled his hair, making him grimace and try to squirm away. “Jackson, Stiles.”

They nodded cordially at each other, and Derek did another quick introduction when Isaac came out with Boyd. They all headed off to a steakhouse near the ballpark that was popular with the team, where Derek ended up seated across from Stiles and next to Boyd.

After they ordered drinks, he leaned in close so he could whisper. “So I hear you’ve been talking to my sister.”

Boyd had the best straight face Derek had ever seen, and he just kept flipping through the menu, avoiding eye contact. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s mostly her and Erica,” he admitted. “I don’t really say anything.”

Derek nodded. Considering that Derek barely allowed _himself_ to think about his possibly fluid sexuality, he’d certainly never talked to Boyd about it. He’d probably be okay with it, he supposed, but…

“I think you should go for it,” Boyd said, and Derek whipped his head to look at him.

“You—what?” he asked. He snuck a look at Stiles, who appeared to be arguing loudly about something with Jackson. Danny was sitting in between them and laughing, though, so Derek wasn’t too worried about it.

“Yeah,” Boyd said lowly. “The important people wouldn’t care. Fuck everyone else.”

“Any secrets that Boyd and Derek would like to share with the class?” Isaac said, grinning, and Derek jerked his head up.

“No,” he said quickly.

“Derek, did you know that your friend here is a _Mets_ fan?” Jackson asked, pulling a disgusted face. “That’s awful, why is he even allowed here?”

“Hey!” Stiles protested. “I—”

“It _is_ awful,” Derek interrupted. “And I’m working on it. He’ll forget about them before too long.”

“Never,” he declared, and Derek kicked him under the table. Stiles kicked back and then trapped Derek’s ankle between his own, not letting go until after their food arrived.

* * *

“So Jackson’s a douche,” Stiles said, flopping down into the passenger seat of the Camaro, and Derek laughed.

“Yeah, sorta. He’s a good teammate, though.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and propped his foot on the dash for about two seconds until Derek slapped it down. “Everyone else is nice.”

Derek made a vague noise of agreement. It had been a little unsettling, in a good way, to see how easily Stiles had fit in with his friends. He listened to Stiles chatter away about them—he got a detailed list of the reasons why Jackson was, in fact, a douche and why Stiles was still making his mind up about Isaac—while he drove the two of them back to the development near the ballpark where most of the team rented condos for the month.

“I like Danny, though,” Stiles finished. He hauled his duffel bag out of the trunk and then slammed it shut before following Derek to the front door.

“Everyone likes Danny,” he said, fishing the keys out of his pocket.

“This is a nice place,” Stiles said with a little hum, strolling through the foyer and poking his head into the kitchen.

Derek shrugged. The condo was a little bland and devoid of personality, but it was clean and furnished and perfectly useful for his purposes. “It’s fine,” he said, showing Stiles to the guest bedroom on the first floor.

“So did you record the Game of Thrones finale like I asked you to?”

“No, I watched it already,” Derek said, as serious as he could muster. Stiles gasped, his face stricken, but something in Derek’s expression must have twitched because then he growled and hit Derek’s shoulder. He was surprisingly strong, actually, and Derek was thankful he went for the left shoulder instead of the right.

“You _asshole_ ,” he said, shoving at Derek again when he laughed. “I was gonna be so mad at you, I swear. Do you have any idea how hard it’s been to avoid spoilers on the internet for the past week?”

“Not really,” Derek said honestly, and Stiles rolled his eyes at him.

“Oh, right, of course not, Derek the technophobe. Do you even have a Twitter or an Instagram or anything?”

Derek shook his head. “I think the PR people would prefer it if I did, but I don’t.”

“Okay, let’s watch,” Stiles said, sinking down into the couch. “I’d like to be able to read my Twitter feed again without looking through my fingers.”

“You sure you don’t wanna wait until tomorrow?” Derek said, feigning a yawn. “I’m pretty tired.”

“Sit your ass down on this couch, old man, and watch people die gruesomely with me.”

“You just make it sound so _appealing_ ,” he said dryly, but he sat down anyway.

Sure enough, the first aforementioned gruesome death popped up about five minutes in, and Stiles threw both hands up in front of his face with a wince.

Derek smirked at him. “What?” Stiles hissed, looking at Derek from behind his hands. “It’s gross.”

“I’ll tell you when it’s over.”

Derek pushed Stiles’ hands back down a minute later and left his hand on his thigh for about a second longer than he would have otherwise. That was enough _progress_ for the day, he figured, and he tried to take a surreptitious deep breath.

Stiles showed every single emotion on his face, the way his eyebrows pinched together when he was grossed out and how wide his eyes got when he was surprised, and Derek found himself watching his reactions more than the show itself.

When it was over, he yawned for real. “Okay, now I’m actually tired.”

“It’s like 10. You are _such_ an old man,” Stiles said, but his grin had a fond tinge to it. Derek huffed anyway.

“I get up early to go run. You wanna come?”

Stiles pulled a face. “Seriously?”

“Mhmm. I leave at seven, it’s part of my routine.”

“Ugh, that’s awful, and this is supposed to be my _vacation_ ,” he said with a groan. “But yeah, sure. Just knock on my door.”

* * *

Derek knocked on Stiles’ door the next morning, as instructed, and then kept knocking, just to be a shit, until he heard a thump and some muffled cursing. “Fuck off!”

Derek grinned and stretched by the front door until Stiles came out, grumpy-faced with a tremendous case of fluffy bedhead. It took him about a mile or so to wake up, but then he was back to his normal talkative self, chattering on about the golf course they ran through and the dogs they saw and whatever random thing crossed his mind, apparently.

He was fast, too, and clearly in pretty good shape. Derek wasn’t sure who kept increasing the pace—though his money was on both of them—but by the time they got back to the house, they were both drenched in sweat and panting, after racing each other nearly flat-out the last three blocks.

“ _Oof_ ,” Stiles said, collapsing onto his back on the grass. “I am way too tired to shower. I think I’ll just wait for some rain.”

“Good plan, considering we’re in the desert,” Derek said, which got his calf swatted when he stepped over Stiles. He paused after unlocking the front door and turned around. “So is this a good time to tell you that there’s usually only enough hot water for one shower?”

Stiles let out a pitiful little yelp and leapt to his feet, but Derek was already through the door and taking the stairs two at a time.

“If you were a good host, you’d let me shower first!” Stiles shouted after him.

“You don’t count as a guest anymore!” he yelled back, then let the bathroom door slam behind him.

Derek turned on the shower and stripped while he waited for the water to warm up, his hands on his hips as he took a couple deep breaths. The adrenaline was flowing from their run, his heart rate still elevated, and he could feel the blood pumping.

_Pumping to some specific places, apparently_ , Derek thought wryly, looking down. He ducked his head under the stream of water and sighed. He didn’t really _want_ to jerk off right now—it was probably rude while someone else was waiting for a shower—but his dick seemed to have a different idea in mind.

So before he could think better of it, Derek braced his left hand against the wall and stroked slowly, waiting for his mind to empty like usual. He’d never had a taste for porn and didn’t really have a bank of satisfying sexual experiences to draw back on, so his thoughts while doing this were usually of the amorphous variety, not really tied into anything in particular except a vague notion of how it might feel like to have sex with someone he was seriously attracted to.

But right now, _all_ he could think of was Stiles. Stiles running, Stiles in Derek’s clothes—where the hell did _that_ one come from?—Stiles’ shoulders…

Derek cursed softly. He’d somewhat resigned himself to the fact that he had a crush on Stiles, or something deeper, maybe, but this was the first time that he’d really popped up in Derek’s more _intimate_ thoughts.

He tried to fight it for a second before giving in, half-heartedly admonishing himself for his lack of willpower.

He wasn’t sure _what_ to think about, exactly, considering that he’d never even kissed a guy before. So he gripped himself a little tighter, exhaling audibly and letting his mind wander. Stiles liked to call himself puny but he was _not_ , not even in comparison to Derek. He was broad and strong, and Derek apparently had zero trouble picturing Stiles on top of him. In his lap, maybe, or perhaps just sprawled out on top of him in bed, holding him down with those big hands while he moved his hips and…

Derek came unexpectedly, faster than usual, and he had to press his lips together to hold in the shuddering gasps that wanted to escape. He twitched through the aftershocks and leaned against the tile, letting the cooling water wash the evidence away while he breathed and tried not to freak out. This was officially getting hard to deny.

He finished the non-mastubatory-related aspects of his shower and dressed quickly, making sure to pull on the old UCLA shirt he always wore to the stadium on pitching days.

Stiles was in the kitchen when he came back downstairs, sitting at the kitchen table and scrolling through his phone. Derek flushed immediately, thinking back to what’d been on his mind less than 10 minutes ago, and he knocked Stiles’ Mets cap off his head in attempt to hide it.

“Hey! Asshole,” he exclaimed, running a hand through his hair and making it stick up further.

Derek poured himself a cup of coffee and smiled behind Stiles’ back. “You stink.”

“Wow, rude. What happened to not biting the hand that feeds you, huh?” he asked, gesturing to a plate on the counter. “I made eggs. I didn’t know how you liked ‘em, so I just—”

“Scrambled is good,” he said, rummaging through the drawer for a fork. The eggs were still warm, barely, and Derek didn’t even bother sitting down before he dug in.

“Whatcha up to today?”

“I’m pitching in the game this afternoon,” he said, and Stiles’ eyes lit up.

“Then tell me all about your game day superstitions,” he said, crunching obnoxiously through a bowl full of Cheerios.

“It’s not _really_ a game day. I’m only supposed to throw three innings, I think.”

“So the superstitions don’t apply?” he asked, and Derek huffed.

“I don’t have any.”

Stiles snorted. “Please. I don’t believe you. Just don’t tell me you wear the same pair of underwear or something,” he said, and Derek wrinkled his nose.

“Gross.”

“Then spill it. You have special game day shoelaces or something? Use a certain soap when you shower?”

“This is my lucky shirt,” he admitted, plucking at it, and Stiles laughed at him.

“That’s not too bad.”

“It’s really not. Baseball players are strange,” he said, and Stiles laughed again. Derek didn’t really consider himself superstitious, especially not compared to some of the other guys, but anyone would be hard-pressed to find any baseball player who didn’t adhere to _some_ kind of routine. Derek was only particular about his on days that he started, though, which was about every five days during the season, give or take depending on when they were off.

“What’s the weirdest one you’ve ever seen?”

Derek hummed and dropped two pieces of bread into the toaster. “There’s a lot of weird food stuff. One guy I knew in the minors had to eat a peanut butter-banana-bacon sandwich exactly two and half hours before every game. And a lot of guys are picky about their equipment. Even Danny gets grumpy if anyone touches his bat.”

“I could make a joke about that, but I won’t,” Stiles said with a smirk, and Derek snorted.

“I have to leave for the ballpark before too long. Do you wanna come with me or wait for Erica, maybe? I have no idea what her plan is.”

“Um,” Stiles said, standing up from the table to rinse his bowl in the sink. “Could I just go with you? There’s a place where I can just hang out with my laptop, right?”

“Yeah, sure. Half hour or so?”

“That’s fine. I hope you didn’t steal _all_ the hot water, you heathen,” Stiles said, shoving at Derek’s arm as he walked by.

“Thanks for the eggs!” he said belatedly, and Stiles waved a hand over his shoulder.

* * *

Derek stretched out on his back and exhaled noisily, trying to focus on the warm sun on his face and nothing else. If at all possible, he like to find a little time to clear his mind, preferably outside, before games. It was a little strange, maybe, but since pitchers were known for being weird, it didn’t faze anyone that he disappeared for 20 minutes a few hours before any game that he pitched in.

He heard someone padding through the grass, and he grimaced—he thought he’d managed to find a fairly secluded patch of grass behind the clubhouse.

“Oh my god, not you, too,” Derek said when he opened his eyes to see Erica standing above him, her hands on her hips, and she rolled her eyes.

“Now that’s not a very nice way to greet your best friend. Would you like to try again?”

“How’d you even find me?”

“You’d think I hadn’t been your friend for six years. I know that you like to _meditate_ or whatever before games.”

“Hey,” he protested. “Meditating has been shown to improve—”

“Save the lecture,” she said, sitting down cross-legged next to him. “Do you have a few minutes, or am I actually bothering you?”

“If you can manage _not_ to talk about Stiles, then sure,” he said, and she laughed.

“Too fuckin’ bad. Your meditating looks an awful lot like brooding, you know.”

He sighed. “I’m not brooding.”

“Brooding over Stiles.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please. Anyone could see your mooning, pining ass from _space_.”

He froze. Shit, shit, _shit_. If he was ever going to actually do this, he’d have to get a lot better at hiding. “Is it really that obvious?”

“Only to me and Laura, I think,” she said after a second. “Pretty sure Stiles doesn’t know. Or any of the other guys.”

He exhaled a little and pulled the brim of his cap down further over his face. “Thank god.”

“So on a scale of one to ten, how much are you freaking out?” Erica asked, and he hesitated.

“Seven.”

“That’s not too bad, I would’ve expected at _least_ a nine,” she said, smirking, and Derek shoved at her blindly. “What are you scared of?”

“I’ve never liked anyone this much,” he said finally. He’d never actually said it out loud before, but teasing aside, he knew he could trust Erica more than just about anyone. “It’s just scary.”

She hummed a little and pressed her knee against his ribs. “Yeah, it is. And you’ll probably screw it up.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he said dryly, and she laughed.

“So it’s not the guy thing?”

Derek hoped that the shadow of his hat brim was enough to hide his blush. “I…there’s that, too.”

“Don’t worry, I can teach you all you need to know about dicks,” she said, and he grimaced.

“No thank you. I will be giving you zero details,” he said, then shook his head. “God, I’m talking about it like it’s actually gonna happen.”

“I think you’d be surprised.”

He stared up at her for a long second and then determinedly looked away. “I am _not_ going to ask you about that. Because no matter what Laura thinks, we’re not in high school.”

“Yep,” Erica said cheerfully, smacking him on the chest. “You’re a fuckin’ grown-up, so you’re gonna have to get off your ass and do it yourself.”

_That_ prospect sounded terrifying, so Derek flipped onto his stomach with a groan while Erica laughed at him.

“So what’re you gonna do about it?”

He thought about it for a second. “Nothing,” he said slowly. “Not right now, anyway. The season’s about to start, and it’s just—it’s too much.”

“Okay,” she said, looking a little disappointed.

“Did you set us up?” he asked, and Erica laughed.

“As much as I wish I could take credit for this, no, I didn’t. I was kinda worried about it, actually—I figured it was about 50-50 whether you guys would become friends or just hate each other’s guts.”

“The other one might have been easier,” he mumbled, and she snorted.

“But seriously. You know I’m here if you wanna talk, right?”

“Yeah,” he said finally, his head pillowed on his arms. “Now go away.”

She laughed again and smacked him on the ass before getting to her feet.

* * *

Derek jogged out to the mound, carefully hopping over the foul line, and immediately caught a ball from Patty to start his warm-up before the inning started.

He was thrilled to be back playing actual baseball, in an actual game, after more than five months without it. Spring training games were a little more relaxed, of course, and didn’t actually _count_ for anything, but he was happy nonetheless.

They liked to ramp the pitchers up slowly, so that they were ready to throw a full game by the time the regular season started, and Derek was scheduled for three innings today, if all went well. He’d gotten through the first two easily, very pleased with how his arm was feeling, so he only had to get three more outs before he was done for the day.

They were playing the White Sox, who seemed to be testing out a bunch of minor leaguers in the lineup, trying to determine who was ready to join the main roster. The first two batters weren’t really a match for Derek—he struck the first guy out on three pitches, and the second guy only managed a weak grounder to second on a particularly nasty curveball.

Derek caught the ball that Patty threw back at him and scuffed the tip of his shoe into the dirt. Just one more, and he could call this a successful spring outing. Some young kid he didn’t recognize was at the plate, fidgeting with his gloves and settling into position.

Patty flashed the sign, and Derek lifted his hands, starting his wind-up. He threw the ball, registered the crack of the bat, and the next thing he knew, he was on his ass, his thigh exploding with pain.

The crowd made a simultaneous gasping noise, but Derek didn’t even hear it as he looked around blindly for the ball. _Finish the play, finish the play, finish the play_ , he told himself, the action as instinctive as anything. He spotted it about five yards away from him, but Boyd was already there, scooping it up easily and tossing it to Jackson before continuing on toward Derek.

Finstock, the team manager, and Patty were already jogging toward him, looking concerned, along with Ben, the team’s athletic trainer. Ben got there first, crouching down and resting his hand on Derek’s shoulder. “Your thigh, son? How’s the pain?”

Derek took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to catalogue the pain. It hurt like _fuck_ , his whole leg was throbbing, but it was already starting to recede a little bit. “It’s not getting worse,” he said, exhaling. “It’s not broken.”

“Well, we’re gonna go take x-rays anyway,” Ben said, then gestured to Boyd. “Let’s get him up. Derek, keep your weight off that leg as much as you can, okay?”

Derek hooked his arms over their shoulders and held his breath as he stood up. The crowd roared its approval, and the two guys helped him off the field, with Derek awkwardly hopping along.

“You’re lucky that Dr. Meyers is here today, otherwise we’d be going to the hospital,” Ben said, and Derek grimaced at the thought. At least one of their team physicians was present at all of their home games in LA, but he knew that wasn’t always the case when they were in Arizona.

She was already in the training room by the time they got there, and she gave Derek a sympathetic smile. “Hey, Derek. That was a pretty nasty hit, how’re you feeling?”

“It hurts, a lot. But it’s not unbearable.”

“Well, that’s a good sign,” she said. “Take off those pants and let’s have a look.”

Ben helped him up on the table, and embarrassingly, took off Derek’s shoes for him. He managed to get his pants down on his own, thankfully, and Dr. Meyers started poking and prodding at him. Derek gritted his teeth.

Ben dropped three pills in his hand, along with a little cup of water, and Derek swallowed them obediently. He laid back and closed his eyes, trying not to pay attention to anything while the two of them talked and fussed over him.

“Well,” Dr. Meyers said finally, propping her hands on her hips. “You were very lucky, Mr. Hale. It must have been a glancing blow because all you’ve got is one nasty bruise. It’s gonna hurt like hell and turn some very gross colors, but you’ll be fine.”

Derek blew out a breath and nodded. _Thank god_. “What do I need to do?”

“If you’re in pain, alternate acetaminophen and ibuprofen, don’t go over the dosage limits. Keep it wrapped and elevated, ice for 20 minutes on and 20 minutes off, as much as you can. And you have my number, so call me if the pain gets any worse or you have any questions, okay?”

Derek nodded. “How long am I out?”

“One-track mind, all of you boys,” Dr. Meyers said with a sigh, but she was smiling. “Nothing more than an easy game of catch or long toss until you can put full weight on that leg with no pain, you got that? Maybe as long as a week, less if you’re a good patient and listen to what I’m telling you.”

“Okay,” he said, with a little laugh. “I promise.”

“Good, because I saved the worst part for last. Crutches.” Derek grimaced, and she smirked at him. “Yes, everyone hates crutches. How about a compromise? Just one crutch, but you promise me that you’ll use it.”

“Deal,” he said with a sigh, and she patted him on the shoulder.

“At least it’s March and not September,” she said, and he couldn’t agree more. “The team’s on the road tomorrow, so you stay home and stay off that leg as much as possible. I’ll come find you the day after that, and we’ll have another look.”

“Yeah. Thanks, doc.”

The game was still in the ninth inning, so Derek had the locker room mostly to himself as he took a quick, very careful shower. He let Ben wrap his leg up tight before he managed to escape without having to talk to anyone else. He ducked back into the locker room to grab his bag and dug out his phone, which showed several texts from Stiles.

3:02 PM **Stiles:** Dude, are you okay? That looked really bad.  
  
3:39 PM **Stiles:** I am a *worrier* Derek. The longer I go without finding out what’s wrong, the worse it becomes in my head.  
  
**Stiles:** You’re probably dying of compartment syndrome right now or something.  
  
**Stiles:** IF THAT’S TRUE I’M GONNA FEEL SO BAD. Shit.  
  
4:17 PM **Stiles:** Okay, Boyd just told us that you’re like, not dead. Thank god.  
  
4:32 PM **Stiles:** Erica and I are waiting in the lobby.

Derek snorted and shook his head.

He didn’t have any messages yet from his mom or his sister, though, which was good—since they both had every alert imaginable set for Derek’s name, that meant his injury wasn’t on the internet yet. He’d have to remember to text them.

He hobbled out of the clubhouse and ran into Stiles and Erica right outside the door, who both reached for him.

“Holy shit, dude,” Stiles said, grabbing Derek’s elbow and taking his bag from him. “Are you okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah, it’s just a deep bruise, no structural damage. I should be mostly back to normal in a few days.”

“Wow, that’s lucky,” Stiles said, with a loud, whistling exhale. “That was fucking terrifying.”

Derek grimaced. A lot of pitchers had been seriously injured by batted balls, and he knew he was incredibly lucky. “Yeah, can we not talk about that part?”

“Sure,” he said with a snort. “C’mon.”

“I’m gonna wait for Boyd,” Erica said, “but call me if you need anything, okay?”

Derek nodded and obediently bent down so she could kiss his cheek.

Stiles kept pace with him while Derek limped toward his car. “Can you drive?” he asked, awkwardly digging his keys out of his pocket before tossing them to Stiles, and he grinned.

“Fuck, yeah. I’m very sorry about the circumstances, but I’m super stoked to drive your car, not gonna lie.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Just get us there in one piece, please.”

“At your service, sir,” he said, opening the passenger door and gesturing gallantly. Derek gave him a flat look, but he let Stiles steady his arm as he dropped down into the seat.

Stiles’ driving was acceptable, and as he fussed over Derek in the house, making sure that he was set up on the couch with ice and anything else he needed, Derek was torn between being grateful and wanting to tear his head off each time he adjusted the pillow. Derek was self-aware enough to realize that he was a grumpy patient, so he bit his tongue and didn’t say anything at all.

“At least you pitched well, though, right?” Stiles asked, from the other end of the couch, and Derek shrugged.

“It felt pretty good. Those batters weren’t great, though, so who knows.”

“It _looked_ great,” he said, and Derek snorted.

“Thanks.”

His phone buzzed against the coffee table, but Stiles glared at him when he tried to reach for it, pushing him back gently. “Relax, buddy.”

“I’m not an _invalid_ ,” he claimed, but Stiles just rolled his eyes and dropped the phone on his chest. It was his mom, and Derek winced as he answered it.

“Derek Samuel Hale,” she started firmly, and he sighed. “Why did I have to find out from the _internet_ that my favorite son is injured?”

“I’m your only son,” he said automatically.

“Doesn’t mean you’re not my favorite,” she said, and the familiarity of the exchange made Derek smile.

“I’m fine, Mom, I promise. It’s just a bruise. I’m sorry I didn’t call you.”

“Are you okay getting around and everything?”

“Yeah, Stiles and Erica are here this weekend, remember? Stiles is staying with me.”

His mom hummed knowingly, and it took everything in Derek’s power to keep a straight face. He really hoped the volume on his phone wasn’t loud enough for Stiles to hear—it wasn’t like he could just get up and go into another room. “Ah, yes, Stiles. Laura has some very interesting theories about that, are you aware?”

“I’m aware that I’m going to _kill_ her,” he said mildly, and his mom laughed.

“Okay, okay. I’ll let it go.”

“Thank you.”

“Just let me talk to Stiles.”

“ _What_ ,” he said, his face horrified. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Just to make sure he’s taking care of you!”

“Still no. Most definitely no.”

“But—”

“Mom, I don’t want to hang up on you. But I _will_ ,” he stressed, and she laughed at him.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. I’m glad Stiles is there with you.”

“Did I hear my name?” Stiles asked loudly, scooting closer, and Derek glared at him.

“Oh, is that him?” his mom asked excitedly. Stiles was definitely close enough to hear that, fuck. Derek wanted to _die_. “Put him on the phone, dear.”

Sure enough, Stiles plucked the phone out of his hand before he could even react. “Hi, this is Stiles!” he said brightly. He hopped to his feet, and Derek reached for him, trying to lever up on his good leg.

“Wait—”

“Sit _down_ , Derek,” he said prissily, shoving him back down before moving out of Derek’s reach.

“Sorry about that, Mrs. Hale,” he said into the phone. “The patient is being unruly.”

“Oh, sorry, _Talia_ ,” he said a second later, winking at Derek. “Uh-huh, really?”

He wandered out of the room, and Derek groaned, stretching out flat on the couch and pulling a pillow over his head. He was going to kill Stiles. Actually, he was going to kill _Laura_. Then Stiles.

Derek heard them say their goodbyes only a couple minutes later. “Don’t believe anything she says,” he said automatically, and Stiles laughed.

“So you’re telling me you _don’t_ like toasted peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?”

Derek stilled and slowly moved the pillow off his face. Stiles was standing by the end of the couch, his arms crossed over his chest with a little smirk on his face.

“What else did she tell you?”

“That was it,” Stiles said. He set the phone back down on the coffee table and sat in the corner of the couch, pulling Derek’s feet into his lap. “Just that you really like toasted PB&Js when you’re feeling bad and that you’re a shitty patient. Well, she didn’t say _shitty_ , exactly, but that’s what I took from it. Why, what were you afraid of?”

Derek snorted, trying to think of something plausible that wasn’t _my mom spilling the beans about my possible crush on you_. “She has a tendency to tell embarrassing childhood stories at the slightest provocation.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic. I’ll have to provoke her next time.”

“There won’t _be_ a next time,” Derek grumbled, and Stiles patted his foot.

“Okay, Der,” he said patronizingly. “Was she mad you didn’t tell her first?”

“She full named me,” he said dryly.

“Ouch,” Stiles said with a grimace. “Hey, you hungry? I can make dinner.”

“You don’t have to make dinner,” he said immediately. Derek felt bad that Stiles came here for a vacation but instead was having to deal with and take care of a grumpy, mobility-impaired professional athlete. “We could order in or something.”

“Well, too bad because I’m doing it anyway. Toasted PBJs, coming up.”

Derek hesitated—that was too tempting to pass up. “Okay,” he said finally. “That sounds good.”

He dozed off for a few minutes while Stiles was in the kitchen, but he jerked awake when something jostled his leg. There were two plates on the coffee table, along with two glasses of milk, and Stiles was putting a fresh ice pack on Derek’s thigh.

He levered himself up to a seated position and reached for one of the plates, then snorted. “The triangles are a nice touch.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” Stiles said, his mouth already full. “Man, these are good.”

“They are,” Derek agreed. They weren’t quite as good as his mom’s, sure, but it was comforting nonetheless.

Stiles flipped channels until he came across a random action movie on HBO, and he left it there when Derek didn’t protest. Derek tried to lie back down again, and he winced when the movement pulled at his thigh. It had only been several six hours, and he was already ready for this dumb injury to be done with.

The doctor said he was lucky that it was just a glancing blow. What if the ball had hit him dead on? What if it hit his _arm_? What if he’d landed funny and hurt himself more seriously? What if he had to miss the beginning of the season—or even more? Derek felt his chest starting to get tight, and he tried to take a deep breath.

“You okay?” Stiles asked, interrupting his thoughts, and Derek lifted his gaze to see Stiles looking at him, his brow furrowed.

“I’m fine,” he answered automatically.

“You sure? I know this movie isn’t great, but I don’t think it deserves the Derek Hale Death Stare of Doom.”

“Did you copyright that? It sounded like it was capitalized.”

Stiles laughed. “Don’t think I don’t know when you’re deflecting.”

“Just thinking,” he admitted, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Oh my god, it’s like pulling teeth. Thinking about _what_?”

“My leg. How it could’ve been worse.”

Stiles’ face turned sympathetic, and he nodded. “Is it the danger thing?”

“Well, yeah, that’s always there, a little bit, in the back of my mind. But it’s more…there’s a lot of pressure,” he said, finally. “On me. To do well this season.”

Stiles muted the TV and turned to face him more fully, pulling one leg up underneath him. “Is that hard to deal with?” he asked, and Derek thought about it.

“Yes and no. I’ve wanted to be a pro since I was 13, so I’ve pretty much always felt the pressure. But it gets worse every year. There’s a lot of people counting on me.”

Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it again. Derek had literally never seen him refrain from saying something, and his eyebrows rose in surprise. “What?”

Stiles hesitated. “You’re not gonna like it.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Well, this is coming from someone who loves baseball,” he started. “But sports in general have such an inflated importance in our society. I mean, you guys get paid so much money, and it’s a multi-billion dollar industry, obviously. But honestly? It really is just a game, and while it’s important to a lot of people, it’s not life or death. You are so lucky to be able to do what you love for a living, and I think you should just try to enjoy every day you get to do that. You work hard, I know you do, so just keep doing that and try to forget about the big picture. Because it really doesn’t matter.”

Derek exhaled heavily and scratched at his beard. “I agree with you, I do. But baseball’s all I have, you know?”

Stiles looked a little sad, but he nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

That seemed to be the end of the conversation, as Stiles twisted back toward the TV and unmuted the movie. Derek felt a little better, though, and he laid his legs over Stiles’ lap in lieu of actually saying something to express his gratitude.

Stiles got up a couple times to get fresh ice packs, and he returned the last time with a pint of ice cream in his hands. “I didn’t know I even _had_ ice cream,” Derek said, and Stiles snorted.

“You’re injured. It’s a requirement,” he said, sitting down right next to Derek and offering him a spoon.

“And so you’re just eating ice cream out of solidarity then?”

“It’s been a very emotionally traumatizing day,” Stiles said, slurring the words around a mouthful of ice cream. “For me.”

Derek rolled his eyes. Together they demolished about half the pint, until Derek gave Stiles his spoon and made him take it away before he could eat any more. It wasn’t a cheat day, after all.

The sugar made him sleepy, apparently, and he had to fight to keep his eyes open for the ending of the mediocre movie that he didn’t really care about. Once he yawned three times in about sixty seconds, Stiles stood up.

“You should take the guest room, since it’s on this floor,” he said. Derek hesitated, and Stiles gave him a look. “Do you really want to attempt those stairs right now? I’ll have to help you, and then I’ll probably _drop_ you, and then I’ll get killed for further injuring the Dodgers’ star pitcher. It’ll be embarrassing for everyone, let’s just avoid it.”

Derek gave a spare thought to his bedroom—he was pretty sure there wasn’t anything embarrassing laying around, and he’d made the bed this morning, even—and offered a grudging nod. “Fine.”

“Cool. You need anything?”

Derek thought about it—he could sleep in the clothes he had on, and he was pretty sure there was a spare toothbrush in the guest bedroom—and shook his head. “No. Uh, thank you. For your help tonight,” he said, suppressing a wince at how awkward and stilted he sounded. Stiles just smiled, though, and patted him on the arm.

“No prob, buddy. Have a good night.”

Stiles ducked into the bedroom to grab a few things and then headed upstairs. Derek got ready for bed slowly, mindful of how his balance was a little off. The ice had helped earlier, but now his leg was throbbing, enough so that he swallowed a couple Advil.

The bed smelled good, familiar, kind of spicy and warm like Stiles’ cologne, maybe, or aftershave or body wash or something. Nobody was there to see him, but Derek still flushed when he rolled onto his good side and took a deeper sniff of the pillow. His dick seemed to take a particular interest, but since there was pretty much nothing creepier than jerking off in someone else’s bed, he tried shut that train of thought down real quick.

But the thought of _Stiles_ jerking off in _Derek’s_ bed…now that was a very pleasant mental picture, and Derek felt the stirring in his shorts again. Fuck.

His phone vibrated on the pillow next to him, and he twisted his head to look. It was Laura, which killed his half-chub pretty much instantly. At least sisters were good for something every once in a while.

10:04 PM **Laura:** Mom got to talk to Stiles??  
  
**Laura:** I'm gonna get his number from Erica.  
  
**Derek:** DO NOT DO THAT.  
  
**Derek:** Jesus Christ, Laura. What’d you tell Mom about us?  
  
**Laura:** Nothing really, I swear. Just that you guys were really good friends and that *I* thought you two would be a cute couple.  
  
**Laura:** Why, did she say something?  
  
**Derek:** Not really, she just insinuated.  
  
**Derek:** She didn’t say anything to Stiles, though.  
  
**Laura:** She wouldn't. She’s just trying to tease you, not actually interfere in your life.  
  
**Derek:** Maybe you should take a clue from her.  
  
**Laura:** Well that’s no fun. *devil emoji*  
  
**Laura:** Oh, and she told me you were okay.  
  
**Derek:** Yeah, thanks for asking.  
  
**Laura:** She said you were fine!!!  
  
**Laura:** Plus, you have a great nurse to take care of you.  
  
**Laura:** I’ve definitely seen porn that started like that.

Derek groaned and tossed his phone to the other side of the bed. There was no satisfying way to hang up on someone via text, and he hated that.

* * *

Stiles yawned around the rim of his coffee mug, leaning against the cabinet while he slumped on the kitchen counter, and the sight made Derek yawn, too. “So do you have any idea what’s happening with this thing?” he asked, and Derek shook his head. It was Stiles’ last full day in Arizona, and they were supposed to go on a Grand Canyon tour with Boyd and Erica.

“Not a clue. Erica planned it. I just know they’re supposed to pick us up in…five minutes,” he said, craning his neck to see the clock on the microwave. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he fished it out. “Speak of the devil.”

7:02 AM **Erica:** We’re bailing, sorry. Hungover from our sex marathon last night that will surely continue into today. We tried this new thing, and I can barely move.  
  
**Erica:** Be jealous you can’t have multiple orgasms, DerBear.

Derek mimicked vomiting, and when Stiles laughed at him, he glared and held his phone out. Stiles grimaced as he read, and Derek raised his eyebrows at him.

“One, TMI,” Stiles said. “Two, can I also call you DerBear?”

“Absolutely not,” he said absently as he looked back down at his phone.

7:10 AM **Erica:** Can’t wait to tell you all about it.  
  
**Derek:** Never tell me. Ever.  
  
**Erica:** Ugh, you're the worst. I'll tell Stiles.  
  
**Derek:** He says no, too.  
  
**Erica:** You guys are NO FUN.  
  
**Erica:** Have fun on your super romantic date. *kissy face emoji* *eggplant emoji*

Derek’s face flushed. God, his friends were the worst.

“What’d she say?”

“Nothing,” Derek said quickly, then shoved his phone in his back pocket. “So I guess we’re on our own. You ready?”

“Yeah. How’s the leg feeling today?”

Derek looked down at it and shrugged. It had been almost three full days since he got hurt, and the worst of the pain was gone. “Not bad, actually. I could probably get away without the crutch.”

“Nope,” Stiles said immediately, and Derek rolled his eyes at him.

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

“But—”

The doorbell rang, interrupting him, and Stiles grinned, hopping down from the counter and then patting Derek on the shoulder as he skirted past him. “Whoops, let me get that.”

Derek sighed and grabbed his crutch and his bag before following.

Stiles was already talking to a woman at the door, who was petite with curly blonde hair and maybe a few years younger than Derek’s mom. “Derek! This is Rita, our tour guide.”

“Oh my goodness,” she said, propping her hands on her hips. “What happened to you?”

“Just a bad bruise,” Derek said. “I’m fine. I hope it won’t interfere with your plans.”

“Oh, not at all. I’m a Dodgers fan, dear,” she said in a stage whisper, patting his arm. “We’ll take good care of you, don’t worry.”

She seemed genuinely nice, so Derek smiled at her and let her lead them out to a fancy Escalade parked in the driveway.

“Wasn’t there supposed to be four of you?”

Stiles snorted, but Derek managed to keep a straight face. “Last-minute cancellation. Is that okay?”

“Of course.”

They drove up to the Grand Canyon, passing through the Red Rocks and Oak Creek Canyon as Rita explained a bit about the history and the geographic features of the area. She was knowledgeable and funny, and she seemed to hit it off with Stiles immediately. He asked a lot of questions, which she was eager to answer, and Derek was more than happy to just sit back and listen.

“So we don’t actually know anything about this tour because our friend planned it,” Stiles explained, once they passed through the entrance to the National Park. “What’re we gonna see?”

Rita laughed and kept driving. “Just you boys wait. Captain Christine is going to take you for quite the ride.”

They ended up in a big clearing, and Rita shooed them out of the SUV.

“Wow,” Stiles breathed, looking up at the big, gleaming helicopter in front of them.

“That’s pretty cool,” Derek admitted. “I’ve never been on one before.”

“Yeah, me neither,” he said with a grin, tugging at Derek’s elbow. “So c’mon.”

The ride was shaky and took some getting used to, but the views were amazing. Derek had never felt so small in his entire life, and he and Stiles spent the entire 45-minute ride with their noses pressed against the glass. They had to yell to be heard over the noise of the chopper, but Derek could get all he needed, really, from Stiles’ excited facial expressions.

Derek’s legs were a little wobbly when they finally got back on solid ground, and based on the way Stiles grabbed his arm as they walked back to the Escalade, he was in the same boat.

“How was it?” Rita asked, grinning.

“ _Amazing_ ,” Stiles enthused, and Derek nodded along as he described the sights.

“Glad to hear it. I picked you boys up some lunch, and now I’m going to show you to my favorite spot in the whole park.”

She led them to a little outcropping off the beaten path, which had a great view and miraculously, zero other people. She even had a thick blanket for them to sit on while they ate lunch, and Derek made a mental note to tip her generously.

The food was good, too, thick-cut fresh sandwiches with fruit salad and roasted potatoes, and Derek ate slowly while listening to Stiles chatter on about everything they had seen.

It was a little chilly up there, and when Stiles shivered for the third time, in just a thin long-sleeved shirt, Derek sighed and reached for his drawstring bag. He pulled out a sweatshirt and thrust it in Stiles’ face.

Stiles laughed. “Oh my god,” he said, his voice muffled as he tugged the hoodie over his head. “So is it just your mission to make sure I’m wearing Dodgers gear at all times?”

Derek shrugged, but he didn’t explicitly deny it. “The weather’s variable here, everyone knows that. And you’re always cold.”

They stayed there for a little while longer, taking in the scenery, and Derek figured that the chilly weather provided enough plausible deniability for him to press their thighs together while they sat.

Rita drove them around the park a little more, pointing out areas of specific interest and taking them down the scenic roadways, until eventually they started to head back toward Phoenix.

“Just let me know if you boys need a bathroom break or anything, otherwise we’ll drive straight through,” Rita said over her shoulder, and Derek nodded. “And feel free to fiddle with the TV back there.”

Stiles did, picking some random comedy on Netflix—Derek didn’t even know cars could _have_ Netflix—and then he promptly fell asleep with his face smashed up against the window.

He kept shifting around, though, looking uncomfortable, until finally Derek sighed and tugged him down by the shoulder, so Stiles’ head was resting on Derek’s good thigh. The weight of him was comforting, as was the low whistle of his breathing, and Derek tilted his own head against the window to watch the scenery fly by.


	4. April

Derek didn’t think he’d ever get tired of the pomp and circumstance of Opening Day.

It was a warm, sunny April afternoon, and by the sound of the sold-out crowd, they were glad that baseball was back. A huge American flag stretched across the entirety of the outfield, and both teams lined up along the foul lines for the national anthem.

Derek wasn’t pitching—he was slated to go tomorrow, as the second in their five-man rotation—so he was free to enjoy the extra pageantry that came along with the first game of the year. Everyone was optimistic, their hopes higher than they’d be at any other time in the season. Anything seemed possible, and he knew that every single team starting today was already picturing the World Series and imagining how it would feel to lift that trophy in six months.

The Dodgers won that night, 5-2, and none of them had a care in the world.

* * *

But by the next night, the nerves were back. Derek didn’t consider himself an anxious person, not really, but he could barely sit still all day, even as he launched into his familiar game day routine. He warmed up with Patty in the bullpen before the game and tried to focus on his mechanics, pinpointing all of his mental energy onto minor things like keeping his front leg bent as he followed through.

They got the sign that there were just a couple minutes left, and as they jogged across the outfield, Patty murmured a string of encouraging words and tips that Derek barely registered. Seeing the familiar infield around him—Boyd, Isaac, Jackson, Danny—helped, as did the comforting feel of the loose dirt under his feet. He threw a couple more warm-up pitches, then the umpire gave the sign and the first batter from the Diamondbacks stepped into the box.

Patty flashed a sign—fastball, down and in—and Derek nodded, adjusting the grip on the ball in his glove. He stepped back and then raised his left knee as he lifted his hands, the motion as comfortable as breathing. He wound up and let it fly, relishing the familiar stretch as he followed through, his right arm coming across his body. He caught his weight with his right leg as the batter swung, missing the ball by at least two inches, and the crowd cheered.

Derek caught the ball that Patty tossed back at him and blew out a breath, feeling his nerves settle. All right. He could do this.

* * *

6:04 PM **Derek:** Okay if I still come over tonight? Might be a little late.  
  
**Stiles:** Of course! You sure you aren't too tired?  
  
**Stiles:** Awesome start, btw. Obviously.  
  
**Derek:** Thanks. Plane's getting ready to leave. Will text when I land.  
  
8:19 PM **Derek:** On my way.  
  
**Stiles:** I've got Chipotle.

* * *

Derek yawned as he walked back to his car. They’d just finished their first long road trip, and while Derek was very excited to actually go home to his apartment and sleep in his own bed, he wanted to go see Stiles more.

He probably shouldn’t think about that too hard, actually.

He really was tired, though, after pitching seven tough innings against Seattle that afternoon, but he didn’t want to skip a Sunday night with Stiles if he could help it. Game of Thrones was over, but Stiles hadn’t said anything about stopping their weekly hangouts—and Derek certainly wasn’t going to bring it up.

“Whoa, look at you, hot stuff,” Stiles said, grinning and waggling his eyebrows as he pulled open the door. Derek pushed past him with a huff. “You guys have a dress code?”

“Yeah, we have to wear jackets whenever we’re traveling officially as a team, on the plane or whatever,” he said, shrugging out of his blazer and laying it across the back of an armchair. He immediately unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled up the sleeves. “At least we don’t have to wear ties.”

“Small mercies,” Stiles agreed, then gestured to the coffee table. “One burrito bowl with brown rice and chicken and guac, light on the cheese.”

Derek collapsed onto the couch and pulled the bowl into his lap. “Thanks,” he said gratefully, then shoved a giant forkful into his mouth.

“Geez. Do they not feed you guys?”

“It’s harder on getaway days,” Derek said, in between bites. “We have to eat fast because everyone wants to hurry and get on the plane, but I’m not hungry right away after I pitch.”

Stiles hummed and slumped in the armchair, eating his own burrito slower, but in far messier fashion. “I know you’re probably tired of baseball, but the Mets are on ESPN tonight…,” he said, trailing off as he gestured toward the TV, and Derek shook his head.

“It’s fine,” he mumbled as he chewed. He’d pretty much never turn down the chance to watch a game, even if he had to watch Stiles cheer for the damn Mets. At least he was wearing a Dodgers sweatshirt.

And speaking of…

“I was wondering where that sweatshirt went,” he said mildly, recognizing the hoodie that he lent to Stiles last month.

Stiles smirked. “You never asked for it back,” he said, tugging the hood up over his head. “Plus, I tend to chew on the strings, so…”

“Okay, yeah, it’s yours,” Derek said, wincing.

“Score,” Stiles mumbled.

“So how was your week?”

Derek pretty much knew, since they texted every day, but he asked anyway. Stiles shrugged.

“All right. Still stuck on that fucking chapter, but I was able to make some other progress. I’m not _too_ atrociously behind schedule, so it should be okay. What about you, how was the trip? Sorry about the loss in St. Louis.”

Derek nodded. He’d gotten the win earlier that day in Seattle, but he wasn’t so lucky against the Cardinals. He’d only given up one run, but the Dodgers scored exactly _zero_ runs, so he got tagged with the loss. “Yeah, it happens. Trip was fine, though. Feels weird being on the road again.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Who’d you room with?”

“Boyd,” Derek said. It wasn’t always him when they had to have roommates—sometimes he was with Danny or Isaac—but he usually liked rooming with Boyd. Except… “He and Erica have a _lot_ of Skype sex. Or phone sex, whatever, I don’t know. I try not to pay attention.”

Stiles laughed and shook his head. “Somehow that is not surprising at all.”

Derek scraped his fork along the side of his bowl to get the last few scraps. This would be a good segue to ask Stiles about his various Tinder exploits—he hadn’t mentioned anyone since that disastrous date a couple months ago—but Derek really, _really_ didn’t want to. So selfishly, he let that topic of conversation die.

But Stiles didn’t seem to mind, his attention suddenly fixated on the TV, where the Mets had the bases loaded with only one out. They wasted the opportunity, though, with a strike out and a weak flyout, and Derek stifled a smile while Stiles yelled at the TV.

Stiles whirled around and glared at him. “And what’s with that _smirk_ , huh?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said easily. “Just, you know, your team sucks.”

“ _Devotion_ ,” he said with a huff, “means maintaining your love, even when everything is shit.”

“So you admit that they’re shit. I think that’s what you were yelling.”

Stiles sniffed. “I yell out of love.”

“They don’t seem to be listening to you.”

“I would kick you _out of this house_ if I didn’t like you so much,” he said, scowling, and Derek swallowed. He opened his mouth to say something, but Stiles kept going. “Of course they’re not _as good_ because they don’t have _you_ , but let’s not punish them for something out of their control, okay?”

He was grinning now, and Derek rolled his eyes. “You’re such a—”

“Such a _what_?” Stiles wheedled.

“Such a good fan,” he said, overly sweetly, and Stiles stuck his tongue out at him.

“ _You’re_ such a jerk,” he said, but it looked like he was about three seconds away from laughing.

“Only when it comes to you being a fan of another team.”

“Okay, a _possessive_ jerk, then,” he said, grinning now, and Derek laughed.

Stiles disappeared back into his bedroom for a second, and Derek concentrated on the game, enough so that he got surprised with a face full of fresh-smelling, heavy fabric.

“You’re wearing dress pants,” Stiles said, while Derek tried to untangle himself, “and it’s making me uncomfortable just _looking_ at you. Put those on.”

They were dark blue sweatpants, but Derek kept turning them over in his hands until his suspicions were confirmed and he saw “Mets” written in huge orange letters down one leg. “I’m not wearing these,” he said, curling his lip in disdain.

“You know, someday I’m going to devise a scenario in which you are literally forced to wear something that says Mets on it.”

“I just wouldn’t wear anything,” Derek said, shrugging. “So I’m pretty sure that’s just an excuse to see me naked.”

Stiles plopped back down in the armchair with a huff, and Derek smiled. He was _pretty_ sure they were flirting, which had never come easily to him before. He didn’t really know what to say now, though, and Stiles was idly scrolling on his laptop while he watched the game, so Derek stretched out on the couch. It wasn’t the most comfortable with his dress pants and shirt on, but he let his eyes fall shut anyway.

“So how long do you want me to let you sleep?”

Derek stilled and opened his eyes. Stiles was still sitting in the chair, facing away from Derek. “Do you have eyes in the back of your head?”

“You do this little sigh thing before you fall asleep,” he said absently, and Derek gaped at him.

“I do _not_.”

Stiles snorted. “Oh, you most definitely do,” he said, and Derek groaned, twisting to press his face into the throw pillow.

“Just wake me up when the game’s over.”

* * *

Derek came to with a grunt, twisting to see what was holding him down. It was Stiles, sitting on his back, and he groaned. “Wow, you’re mean,” he grumbled.

“You didn’t specify how to wake you up,” Stiles said, sliding off Derek and back onto his feet.

Derek sat up with a sigh and twisted his neck until it cracked. “Violence isn’t necessary. Words work just fine.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for the next time you fall asleep on my couch in your fancy clothes.” Derek looked down at his dress pants, wrinkled beyond belief, and sighed. “You’re regretting turning down those sweatpants, aren’t you?”

“Never,” he said, trying in vain to press out the wrinkles with his hands, and Stiles laughed.

“You sure you’re okay to drive home?”

Derek nodded, stifling a yawn. He was tired, but not unreasonably so. “Are you coming to any of the games next weekend?” he asked. The Mets were coming to town, and he figured Stiles would want to go. “I can get you tickets.”

“Oh, yeah, I wanted to ask you about that, actually. Erica and I are coming on Friday, _obviously_ ,” he stressed. Derek rolled his eyes, but he was secretly pleased—he was scheduled to start that night. “And do you think we could get one extra ticket?”

Derek blinked, worst-case scenarios flickering through his head. There was no way Stiles could have a boyfriend he hadn’t heard about, right? “Uh, yeah, sure. For who?”

“My dad.”

“Your dad,” Derek repeated, a little surprised. “What’s he doing in town?”

Stiles smirked. “It’s my birthday. On Friday.”

“Oh, really?”

“So…if you could let the Mets win, that would be great,” he said, rushing to get the words out of his mouth before Derek lunged for him, going for the ribs. 

* * *

4:49 PM **Derek:** Who’re you rooting for tonight?  
  
**Stiles:** Hmmmmm, I dunno. Game time decision, probably. *sunglasses emoji*  
  
**Derek:** You’re on the list, you can come down to the clubhouse after if you want. But if somebody beats you up for wearing Mets stuff, I’m not gonna defend you.  
  
**Stiles:** Aw, Der, you’re so good to me.

Derek smirked before he switched off his phone and went to get his customary pre-game peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

* * *

Derek struck out the last Mets batter of the seventh inning and trotted off the field and into the dugout. He chose his customary spot on the bench in the corner and wrapped his jacket around his arm, trying to keep it warm. Normally this was about the time when he would be arguing with Finstock and the pitching coach—they’d want to take him out of the game, he’d want to keep going, heedless of the pitch count that was supposed to dictate how long he threw—but he knew there was no doubt he’d keep pitching tonight.

The dugout was as busy as usual—coaches yelling about something, the batters scrambling to find their gloves, the other pitchers slumping on the bench and pelting each other with sunflower seeds—but Derek felt as if he were in a bubble. Normally everyone would be giving him words of encouragement or pats on the arm as they passed by, but not tonight. Not one person spoke to Derek or even looked at him, but he didn’t take it personally.

He dropped his head between his knees and took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind. He had pitched seven innings so far, and he had not given up one single hit. That meant he was only six outs away from throwing a no-hitter, the first of his professional career. Out of the 2000-plus games played by all the teams over an MLB season, only one or two, on average, were no-hitters, and Derek was possibly less than half an hour away from his own.

Oh, god, he had to breathe again.

He inhaled through his nose and exhaled out his mouth, staring down at the floor and the cleats that stepped in and out of his vision as people walked by. In a game full of superstitions, the most reverently-held one in baseball was that no one was allowed to talk about a no-hitter in progress, and they weren’t even supposed to look at the pitcher in question.

The Dodgers were doing a good job of it, too, and it felt sort of dream-like as Derek went back out for the eighth inning. It went by mostly in a blur. He had a vague recollection of what happened—Jackson made a nice play, he was pretty sure, he’d have to thank him for that later—but otherwise, he was acting mostly on autopilot. He didn’t give up any hits, though, and he immediately went back into the dugout to sit in the same spot, wrap his arm up the same way, and stare down at the ground.

Turned out anyone could become superstitious when a no-hitter was on the line.

By the time he took the mound for the ninth inning, the entire stadium was on its feet, and Derek swore he could feel the vibrations of their cheering through his feet. Patty jogged out to the mound with him and dropped a baseball into his hand. “Finish it,” he said, smacking Derek on the chest with his glove. Those were the first words anyone had spoken to him in over an hour, and Derek nodded.

The Mets’ third baseman was up first, and Derek struck him out on four pitches. The crowd got even louder, but Derek forced it out. This was just any other game, any other batter.

The next batter hit the first pitch with a loud crack, and the crowd seemed to freeze at once. Derek whirled around, his heart caught in his throat, to watch the ball. It was long and high, but it was floating and Suarez caught it easily, about five yards from the left-field wall.

Derek exhaled. One to go.

The batter didn’t swing at the first two pitches, and the umpire called them both balls. Derek gritted his teeth. A walk wouldn’t mess up the no-hitter, but he wanted to be done with this. He’d thrown at least 20 more pitches than normal, and he could definitely feel it in his arm.

Derek held the ball in his glove, hiding it from the batter, and moved his fingers into a curveball grip. He let the ball fly, and the batter hit a weak roller over toward first base. It was an easy play, one Boyd had successfully completed probably about a thousand times in his life, but Derek held his breath nonetheless as he bent down to grab it and then stepped on first base, a solid three seconds before the batter did.

That was it, he did it.

Derek let his glove drop to the ground as he put both hands on his head—numb, almost, and in complete shock that this actually happened.

Patty reached the mound first, wrapping his arms around Derek and yanking him straight up off the ground with a yell. Derek laughed and landed mostly on Boyd, who immediately pulled him into a big bear hug. The rest of the infield was crowded around him, and someone slapped his ass—probably Danny. Everyone from the dugout piled on, then all the guys from the bullpen, and soon it was one big bouncing huddle. Everyone was yelling in his ear, but he could barely hear it over the roar of the crowd and the fireworks going off in the park. Someone threw the Gatorade cooler on them, and Derek grimaced as he side-stepped out of the cold spray.

The coaches were standing just out of the fray, but they were quick to approach him as soon as the group broke up a bit.

“Fuck yeah!” Finstock shouted, and Derek laughed as he clapped him on the shoulder.

He was forced to stop for a minute to talk with the reporter standing at the edge of the field, but everyone kept giving him back slaps as they passed, and he really had no idea what he said, he just hoped it wasn’t anything too incoherent or embarrassing. Derek tipped his hat to the crowd, a little bashfully, and he was rewarded with another swell in the noise before he stepped down into the dugout.

Someone in the locker room produced a bottle of champagne from somewhere, handing it to him, and everyone cheered as Derek popped the cork and took a swig from the bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and handed the bottle off, knowing that it would be empty in just a few minutes.

The press were clamoring to talk to him, and he spent a good 10 minutes giving his rote answers—all the credit went to the defense, it meant a lot, he’d dreamt of this day since he was a kid, etc., etc.—before he finally escaped to go shower off the sticky Gatorade.

Everyone was still hyped up, and between all the congratulations and discussions about the game, it took a while before Derek made his way back to his locker room.

He had a _lot_ of texts, wow, from Laura and his mom and friends from college and the minors, but he tapped Stiles’ message thread first.

8:37 PM **Stiles:** Nobody will talk about it.  
  
9:01 PM **Stiles:** Holy shit, I am DYING here.  
  
9:16 PM **Stiles:** Derrrrrrek. I’ve never rooted so hard against the Mets in my entire life.  
  
9:43 PM **Stiles:** Oh my GOD, DEREK! Are you serious??? You just threw a FUCKING NO-HITTER!  
  
**Stiles:** You know that, obviously.  
  
10:52 PM **Stiles:** Where are you??? I’m gonna tackle the shit outta you, pls be prepared.  


The last one was from just a few minutes ago, so Derek dressed quickly and headed toward the area outside the locker room where the friends and family usually waited. As promised, as soon as he was through the door, Stiles quite literally jumped on him.

“Holy shit, dude!” he yelled, right in his ear. Erica was there, too, hanging onto his neck, and Derek chuckled before setting them both back down on their feet.

“Happy birthday,” he said dryly, and Stiles laughed, loud and bright. His amber eyes were fucking sparkling, Derek was sure of it, and it was hard for him to look away.

“ _Even though_ it was against the Mets,” he said, patting him on the chest, “I’ll take it.”

“Congrats, DerBear,” Erica said, grinning, and Derek was too happy to even protest the nickname.

The other man with them, whom Derek recognized from photos as Stiles’ dad, stepped forward and clapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, son, what a game. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Thank you,” Derek said, shaking his offered hand. “You, too, sir.”

“Call me John.”

“Oh, right,” Stiles said, waving his hands in between them. “Introductions, sorry. Dad, Derek, Derek, Dad.”

“So since when have you had a Dodgers jersey?” Derek asked, more than a little surprised to see Stiles without a speck of Mets paraphernalia on.

“Bought it in Arizona,” he said, twisting so Derek could see his own name and number on the back. He blinked. Well, that was just…

“Cool,” he said lamely.

Erica snorted, and Derek glared at her.

“Saved this for you,” Boyd said, holding out a ball, and Derek smiled as he took it from him. It was the ball from the last out, he knew, and he was really grateful that Boyd had held onto it. Maybe he’d give it to his mom.

“Thanks, man,” Derek said, tucking it carefully into his bag.

“So,” Stiles said, clapping his hands. “Drinks? Yes?”

Erica agreed with him immediately, as did Boyd and Danny and everyone else within earshot.

Derek hesitated for a second, but Stiles slung a playful arm around his shoulders and shook him gently. “C’mon, old man. Just one. Maybe two.”

* * *

Two drinks turned into three, which turned into four, but Derek couldn’t find a lot to complain about at the moment, flushed and happy and squeezed into a booth with his favorite people, his thigh pressed firmly against Stiles’.

“I have never seen you drunk before,” Stiles leaned in to say. “This is fantastic.”

“I’m not _drunk_ ,” he claimed, but Stiles just gave him a look. “I’m not. I swear.”

“He who doth protest too much…”

Derek must have made a face because Stiles laughed. “Okay, I’m not sober enough for _Shakespeare_. Or to drive, shit. I need to get an Uber,” he said, then his face fell. “But aw, man, my car is here.”

Stiles laughed again and patted Derek’s thigh. It was there for only a second, but Derek stared down at it regardless. “How about I drive you home in your car, and my dad can follow me?”

“Really?” he asked. He really hoped that his embarrassing crush wasn’t showing on his face, but he had no idea. With his luck, it probably was.

“Of course.”

They didn’t stay too much longer, since the Dodgers had an afternoon game tomorrow and everyone—except Derek, probably—was due at the stadium pretty early. Nobody would let Derek pay for anything, so he sat there a little awkwardly and let everyone congratulate him again while they took care of the tabs.

On their way out, John had to catch his arm when he stumbled against the door jamb, and Derek’s cheeks flushed. “I don’t usually drink this much, I swear,” he tried.

“Yes, I can see that,” John said dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re a bit of a lightweight, son.”

Stiles cracked up, and Derek sighed. He wasn’t making a very good first impression, shit. Maybe the no-hitter made up for it.

Stiles spotted the Camaro in the lot and tugged at Derek’s elbow to drag him in that direction. “Dad, just follow me, okay? It’s not that far from here.” John gave a little salute and peeled off toward the Jeep. “Der, where are your keys? I _will_ dig through your pockets, I swear.”

Derek successfully bit his tongue to hold back his response to _that_ suggestion and instead just handed Stiles his keys. He tried to stay quiet on the drive, afraid of what he might say with his defenses lowered, but Stiles talked enough for the both of them, as always. He eagerly replayed the highlights of the game, while Derek slumped in the passenger seat and very much enjoyed—probably too much, actually—the sight of Stiles wearing his jersey.

The parking garage was dark and quiet, and Stiles trailed after him toward the elevator. “Hey, we still on for Sunday?”

“Uh, yeah,” Derek said, jabbing the up button a few times. “You sure you don’t want to spend more time with your dad?”

“He’s leaving Sunday morning.”

“Oh, then definitely.”

“Okay, c’mere, bring it in,” Stiles said, hooking one arm around Derek’s neck and the other around his waist while he hauled him close.

Derek fell against him a little bit, which was probably only 25% due to his drunkenness. After about a thousand bro hugs and back slaps, it felt really good to get an actual, proper hug. Even better that it was from Stiles. “Congrats, dude,” he said, right in his ear. “That was fucking awesome.”

Derek nodded into Stiles’ shoulder. “Thanks for coming. Happy birthday.”

Stiles laughed again and pulled back, steadying Derek when he kept swaying toward him. “Best birthday ever. Do you need me to go up with you?” he asked, and Derek shook his head. He _wanted_ that, pretty much more than anything, but he was sober enough to realize that would be a terrible idea. And he wasn’t drunk enough to need help.

“No, I’ll be fine. Thanks again.”

Stiles hesitated for a second and then nodded. “Drink water and take some Advil, okay? Don’t forget to ice your arm.”

“So bossy,” Derek said, but it came out a lot fonder than he was intending. He really needed to get away from Stiles before he said or did something that he would really regret.

“Yep, that’s me,” Stiles called out, walking backward toward the exit that led to the street. Derek watched until he saw a flash of the blue Jeep, then stepped into the elevator, shaking his head.

* * *

“What’s that?”

Derek froze on the doorstep and gestured at Stiles, who was blocking the door. “So can I come in, or…”

“Not until you tell me what that is,” he said, looking pointedly at the small box in Derek’s hands.

“What do you think it is? It’s a birthday gift.”

“Okay, you can come in,” Stiles said, and Derek followed him into the house and to the kitchen. “But what are you talking about? You threw a _no-hitter_ for me.”

“It wasn’t really _for_ you,” Derek started, but Stiles shook his head.

“Oh, in my head it was,” he said, grinning, and Derek rolled his eyes as he handed over the gift. Stiles tore open the box and grinned wider. “Wow, it’s a present wrapped in a _Dodgers_ t-shirt, surprise surprise.”

He untangled the shirt and laughed when he saw the baseball inside, turning it over in his hands. “Oh my god, and it’s signed by my second-favorite player and everything! Holy shit, this is cool. Thanks, man.”

Derek frowned. Pete Cannon was the Mets’ shortstop, and he swore that Stiles said… “You told me he was your _favorite_ player.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows at him. “Well, I don’t really have a desire to have something signed by _you_. And that would be a shitty gift anyway, so this is awesome.”

Derek blinked. “Oh—thanks.”

“I’m the one who’s supposed to say thank you, you doofus,” Stiles said, as if he didn’t know what Derek was referring to, but he was smiling. “This is great.”

“Well, you’re welcome,” Derek said, taking a swig from the open beer on the counter. Stiles glared at him playfully and stole it back to take his own sip, but then he put it back down next to Derek’s elbow. “You have a good time with your dad?”

“Yeah,” he said, his face splitting into a smile. “Yeah, it was really good. Thanks for coming to brunch with us yesterday.”

Derek shrugged. “I had to make up for my terrible, drunken first impression on Friday night,” he said, and Stiles laughed.

“No way, man, he thought you were cool. He was just impressed that you didn’t wanna drive drunk. And he didn’t show it, but he was totally star-struck. I mean, he got to see you throw a _no-hitter_. You probably could’ve, I don’t know, done a line of _coke_ on the table, and he wouldn’t have cared.”

Derek gave him a look.

“Okay, maybe not,” Stiles amended. “I probably would’ve gotten a lecture on making good friends or whatever.”

“I’ve never done coke,” Derek said, probably needlessly, and Stiles laughed. “Make sure he knows that.”

“And he appreciated the Dodgers hat. He was wearing it when he left this morning.”

“Good,” he said, a little smug.

“So, speaking of the game, I actually have a present for you, too,” Stiles said, reaching for something behind the breakfast bar. He held it behind his back, and Derek frowned.

“A present for what?” he asked, standing on his tip-toes to look over Stiles’ shoulder. “It’s not _my_ birthday.”

“It’s just a present,” he repeated. “Just because I wanted to.”

“But—”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Just open it, you jerk,” he said, moving his hands back in front of him and handing the gift to Derek. It was a large, shallow rectangular shape, wrapped in simple brown paper. Derek carefully tore the paper off, setting it on the kitchen island, and looked at the plain white box, examining it from all angles. He lifted it up, planning to shake it, but Stiles grabbed his wrist and glared at him. “Oh my god, open the fucking box.”

Derek smirked at him but obeyed, thumbing open the tape and unwrapping the layers of bubble wrap inside the box. It was clearly something in a frame, and when Derek flipped it around to see the front, he couldn’t hold in the little noise of surprise.

As he stared at it and searched for words, Stiles rocked back on his heels and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Uh, it’s your—”

“My no-hitter,” Derek said dumbly. “You kept score.”

He ran his thumb over the glass, careful not to smudge. Scorecards for no-hitters were abnormally neat, and he replayed each play in his head as the looked at the little boxes—that long fly-out in the sixth, the ground ball to Boyd that ended it. Stiles’ signature was scrawled at the bottom, along with Erica’s and John’s, and he’d written _Derek’s No-Hitter_ across the top, in all caps with about six exclamation points.

“Is it weird?” Stiles asked finally. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

Derek _still_ couldn’t find any words, none that were good enough, but he shook his head quickly. “No, it’s—fuck,” he said, frustrated. This was certainly the most meaningful gift he’d ever gotten, and he couldn’t process anything except for the buzzing in his head. He looked up, finally, and saw Stiles standing just a hair’s breadth from Derek’s shoulder, their bodies perpendicular to each other.

Stiles’ eyes were wide and completely unguarded for once, and their gazes locked. Derek’s heart was _racing_ , what the fuck, and sweat was prickling at the small of his back. It almost felt like he was drunk again, with everything somewhat hazy, or maybe like this was some kind of movie—like he was watching it from the side rather than living it. His blood seemed to be thrumming through his veins, which was a completely foreign feeling, and he was pretty sure that Stiles looked a little shell-shocked, as well.

So before he could talk himself out of it, he clutched the frame a little harder and lunged forward, pressing his lips clumsily against Stiles’.

Well, that wasn’t smooth.

Derek winced internally and prepared to pull back, but Stiles’ breath hitched as one of his hands came up to tangle in Derek’s hair, holding him in place. He rearranged the angle and made it better, of course, and Derek sagged against him gratefully. He’d never felt so off-balance probably ever, and definitely not from just a kiss. A fairly chaste one, at that, even as they surged together and nipped at each other’s lips.

Somebody finally pulled back, probably when the need for oxygen was getting too pressing, and the two of them just stood there for a second, panting and staring at each other. Stiles’ eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open, and Derek could very clearly see how red and swollen his lower lip was.

Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but all of a sudden Derek felt completely incapable of hearing anything that he had to say, good or bad.

“I gotta go,” he blurted out, and he slammed his eyes shut as soon as the first signs of surprise and disappointment flickered across Stiles’ face.

Derek was still holding the frame, thank god, and he blindly stumbled through the house, out the front door, and over to his car. He dropped his forehead on the steering wheel and exhaled shakily.

 _Fuck_.


	5. May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left such sweet comments on the last chapter! Hope you like this one. ♥

Derek leaned back against the headrest and exhaled. It was Monday morning, they were on the plane to Pittsburgh, and while he was trying to get some reading done for his class, he kept staring off into space and twirling his phone in his fingers. It was hard to find the energy to care about modern European history when a mere 12 hours ago, Derek very well could have ruined one of the best relationships in his life.

He sighed again, and Boyd looked over at him from the aisle seat. “I’m not gonna ask twice,” he said lowly, and Derek snorted. Boyd had clearly guessed that something was up and asked about it as soon as they got on the plane, but Derek just shook his head in response at the time.

“That’s why we’re friends,” he said, and Boyd looked back down at his iPad with a little smirk.

Derek fidgeted with his phone again. He’d turned it off as soon as he left Stiles’ last night, and he’d been too chickenshit to turn it back on since. But he finally just pressed the damn button, plugging in his headphones and grimacing in anticipation as it booted up. He kind of expected to have a bunch of texts and missed calls from Stiles, but there was only one voicemail.

Derek stared at it for a while, imagining what terrible rants and raves could be in that message, and finally, when he couldn’t take it anymore, he summoned a little rush of courage and pressed play.

_Hey, Derek, it’s Stiles. Just wanted to say I’m sorry for…for, uh, what happened. Anyway, I know you’re leaving in the morning, so have a good trip. I’d hope we can talk about this sometime, though, so call me if you get a chance. So—goodbye. Just call. If you want. And good luck with the games._

Derek exhaled. _Stiles_ was sorry? Derek was the one who kissed him, completely unprovoked, and then ran out of there like his hair was on fire without so much as an explanation. Or, hell, without even a _thank you_ for an enormously thoughtful gift.

Man, he really was an idiot.

Derek allowed himself to mull it over for the rest of the plane ride—and embarrassingly, he listened to the voicemail three more times just to hear Stiles’ voice—but as soon as they landed, he pushed it down. He was starting the day after tomorrow, and he didn’t have time to think about anything else.

* * *

He was not very successful.

No matter how hard Derek tried, he couldn’t get Stiles off his mind. Normally, he was very good at compartmentalizing, by necessity, but not with this, apparently. He thought about him while he was getting a massage, while he was running the stairs in the stadium, while he iced his arm.

Finally, a few hours before his start on Wednesday, Derek opened Stiles’ text message thread on his phone and stared at it. He typed and deleted and typed and deleted until he landed on something that he didn’t think was terribly awful.

4:03 PM **Derek:** You don’t have to apologize. It was my fault, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left.  
  
**Derek:** And thank you for the gift, it really means a lot.  
  
**Derek:** Could we talk when I get back next week?  
  
**Stiles:** Yeah, course. Good luck tonight.

Derek exhaled and turned his phone off, feeling lighter than he had in three days.

* * *

They got back to LA from Houston late on Sunday night, appropriately, and Derek took the time to make one stop before heading over to Stiles’. They hadn’t talked all week, save for those initial texts and a confirmation that Derek could come over that night, and Derek had no idea what he was walking into. Was Stiles pissed? Was he going to pretend that nothing ever happened? Anything was possible, and Derek hated uncertainty.

His heart was pounding, and he took three careful deep breaths before he knocked on the door. Stiles threw it open a minute later, wearing Derek’s Dodgers hoodie. He wasn’t smiling, though, and Derek swallowed. “I, uh, brought tacos,” he said lamely, lifting his hand holding the paper bag, and Stiles’ mouth turned up a little at the corners.

“Okay, then you can come in. I’m always up for a late-night snack.”

Derek followed Stiles into the kitchen and carefully avoided looking at the spot by the island, where they had their fateful kiss.

“So,” Stiles said, hopping up onto the counter and making grabby hands for the bag. Derek handed it to him eagerly. “I think it’s about time you tell me the whole story now, the one about you maybe liking guys.”

Derek sighed and rubbed his palms down his jeans. Okay, so they weren’t going to ignore it. He probably should have guessed that, actually.

Stiles pulled out a taco and started eating, looking at Derek expectantly. Derek ran his hand along the edge of the island and kept his gaze firmly on the floor. “So, uh, when I was in high school, I had this friend, Luke.”

Stiles hummed. “Sounds like a hot guy name. Like Derek,” he said, through a mouthful of food, and Derek gave him a flat look.

“Can you let me finish?” he asked, and Stiles made a little bowing gesture.

“Sorry, sorry. Continue.”

“So we were close, and I was confused by how I felt about him. But I never…nothing ever happened. And I’m pretty sure he was straight, anyway. But then in the same month, he moved away, and my dad and my sister died. After that, there was just so much going on—I was trying to deal with the grief, and baseball was ramping up, I was working really hard at that and with school, trying to get a scholarship. I just…it didn’t seem like I had time for a sexuality crisis,” he said, trying for a little smile. “And that was that.”

Stiles hummed again and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You never thought about guys again?”

Derek shrugged. “I’d never really felt attracted to anyone, honestly. So I didn’t know if it was a, uh, a phase, maybe, or if it was just him.”

“Did you date at all in college? You might as well just give me your entire romantic history,” Stiles said, smirking, and Derek rolled his eyes.

“It isn’t very long.”

“That’s what she said,” Stiles said immediately, and Derek rolled his eyes again, slower this time.

“Wow, you really know how to set the mood.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, reaching for another taco as he bit back a smile. “Keep going.”

“When I was a freshman,” he said slowly, “I met this girl. She was, uh, she was really hot and a little older than me. I didn’t…I was kinda ambivalent about the whole thing, actually, but the other guys on the team seemed really excited about it, and since it was my first year, I was trying to fit in. So I went out with her, and we dated for a few months. But then I, uh, I overheard her talking to one of her friends about how she was just dating me because she hoped I would be rich and famous one day.”

Stiles winced. “Fuck. That’s awful.”

“Yeah,” he said with a snort. “She wasn’t the greatest.”

For once, Stiles looked nervous, and he fiddled with the strings of his hoodie. “You said earlier that you weren’t really attracted to anyone.”

Derek swallowed and stuck his neck out a little more. “I believe I used past tense, actually,” he said, and Stiles’ eyes widened. He forced himself to inhale and take a step back. “I’ve been doing a lot of talking, which is strange for us. You should probably say something.”

Stiles scrubbed a hand through his hair with a little laugh and drummed his heels against the cabinet. “Oh, I should, should I?”

“Yeah,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. Stiles coughed.

“Well. I’ve had a very serious and very embarrassing crush on you since the second I met you,” he said plainly, as if his words weren’t _destroying_ Derek. “So…you should probably know that.”

Derek blinked at him for a second, but Stiles certainly didn’t appear to be joking. He looked _uncertain_ , even. “You, uh, really?”

Stiles nodded. “At first, I was a little pissed because I thought I’d left that habit behind in high school. Crushing on straight guys, that is. But then, well,” he said, gesturing unnecessarily, “then it got, uh, worse.”

“Worse?”

“Because I knew I had a _chance_!” he exclaimed, sliding down from the counter and starting to pace. “I mean, I didn’t _really_ think so because you’re still you, and I’m still me, but it wasn’t literally hopeless. Maybe from negative ten percent to—”

Derek caught Stiles’ elbow on his way by, surprising him into silence. He knew that Stiles was very capable of continuing to talk and talk and talk, and well, Derek had other things on his mind at the moment. “I really want to kiss you again,” he said, and Stiles stilled, looking down at Derek’s hand on his arm.

“You—you want to what?”

Derek took a step forward, caging Stiles in against the stove. He was terrified, his heart pounding so loud he would swear they could both hear it, but the way Stiles was looking at him, his eyes wide and mostly pupil, was doing a fair bit to ease his anxiety. “You heard me. If you want to,” he added.

Stiles was the one who lunged this time, fisting one hand in the lapel of Derek’s blazer and tugging him closer until their lips met. Derek exhaled in surprise but leaned into it eagerly, thrilled that the feelings of uncertainty and shock from the first time weren’t as strong anymore. He cupped Stiles’ face in both of his hands, thumbs brushing against his cheekbones, and Stiles’ hand slid from Derek’s chest around to his back.

The kiss was mostly gentle, more exploratory than anything, and Derek noted absently that Stiles tasted like salsa. He liked to nibble and suck at Derek’s lower lip, apparently, which luckily Derek liked, too. He thought maybe Stiles was doing that thing where someone does what _they_ want done to _them_ , so he tried that and bit down just a little harder than Stiles had been doing. It was the right move, clearly, because Stiles groaned a little, the noise reverberating between them, and Derek held him tighter.

“Holy shit,” Stiles said then, pushing away from Derek and running his hands through his hair. It took Derek an extra second to regain his balance. He wasn’t exactly a pro at this, but it seemed like Stiles should still be kissing him and not freaking out.

“Was it—bad?” he asked, hesitant and a little afraid of the answer. He certainly didn’t think so, but it was only his second time kissing a guy, so…

“No!” he exclaimed, thank god. “I just…okay. Hang on a second.”

Derek blinked, a little amused that the tables had turned so quickly. Now _Stiles_ was the nervous one, and Derek felt calm, relatively speaking. “Okay.”

“Just let me get this out, yeah?”

“Right, because _I’m_ the one who interrupts,” he said dryly, and Stiles gave him a look.

“Stop that, stop being cute. I mean it,” he said pointing, and Derek ducked his head, trying to hide his smile. “Okay. Back to the aforementioned embarrassing crush. I—I really like you, dude. Like a lot. And as much as I want to help you, uh, figure this whole thing out, I really can’t do something casual with you. It will end in total and utter heartbreak for me, I found that out the hard way.”

Stiles swallowed and nodded a little, his face firm, so Derek assumed he was done.

“Let’s go in the living room,” he said, reaching for Stiles’ hand and tangling their fingers together before tugging him in that direction. He wanted a more comfortable place to sit—not only because he was hoping for a little more of the making out—and it also gave him a little bit of time to think about what he wanted to say.

He pushed Stiles down gently when they got to the couch and then sat next to him, their knees knocking.

“So are you trying to—”

“Stiles,” he interrupted, resting a heavy hand on his knee. “It’s not just about _guys_. Believe me. I have been around a lot of guys in my life, some very objectively attractive ones, and I’ve never felt anything for them. I have no desire to _experiment_ with anyone else. I just want to be with you. To date you, I mean.”

Stiles blinked at him for a second, his head tilted. He leaned forward a little and wormed his arm between Derek’s hip and the back of the couch. “Are you secretly a sap? Because that should come with a warning label, honestly, I’m not sure I’m prepared for that.”

Derek didn’t really know what to say to that, but apparently he now had more options at his disposal than just words. He leaned in and captured Stiles’ lips with his own, struggling to believe that this was only their… _third_ kiss with how natural it felt.

“So does all this mean you want to date me, too?”

Stiles groaned and covered his face with his hands. “I mean, you’re _so_ cute, and you’re such a dork, and you’re like, really good at what you do, which believe me, is super hot. _And_ you for some reason want to make out with _me_. This is just a lot for me to process right now.”

“I can go,” Derek suggested, holding back a smile, but as soon as he made a move to get up, Stiles grabbed his wrist.

“Oh, no, mister. You are not going anywhere, sit that cute ass down.”

“You think my ass is cute?”

He snorted. “I have a _lot_ of thoughts about your ass.”

“Maybe you should tell me.”

Stiles huffed as he got one leg up underneath him and swung the other over Derek’s lap to straddle him. He slid both hands over Derek’s chest under his jacket and then down to his belt buckle, tugging on it playfully. Tightening his grip on Stiles’ hips, Derek let his head fall back against the back of the couch. Stiles kissed him lazily, walking his fingers up Derek’s side and smiling into his mouth when he hit a tender spot that made him squirm. Derek let out a mock growl and leaned forward to zero in on the area _he_ knew about, high on Stiles’ ribs.

Stiles pulled back and tipped his head, laughing as Derek continued to rain kisses down the long line of his neck. “Hey,” he said, the word wrapped around a giggle when Derek apparently hit a new sensitive spot. “We should stop.”

“What, why?” Derek asked, not caring that it definitely came out sounding like a whine. Stiles laughed again and slid his thumb through the short hairs at the nape of Derek’s neck.

“Uh, because this is a little new for you.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, sliding his hand up under Stiles’ hoodie to rest on his stomach over his t-shirt. “But I’m not some kind of blushing virgin.”

“Well, your ears _are_ fairly pink right now,” Stiles mused, and Derek glared at him. “And hey, maybe I wanna take it slow.”

“Okay,” he agreed instantly, leaning back and moving his hand. Stiles nodded and kept playing with Derek’s hair.

“But you could, um, stay over, if you wanted to? Just to sleep.”

“I—”

“Holy shit, wait,” Stiles said, pausing and counting on his fingers. “Should you even be here? Don’t you start tomorrow?”

Derek shook his head. “We were off on Thursday, so everything’s pushed back a day. I go on Tuesday.”

“Oh,” he said, looking relieved. “So you _could_ stay. If you wanted to.”

“I, uh, I want to.”

Stiles visibly relaxed and slumped down in Derek’s lap. “Awesome. It is pretty late, so you wanna go to bed? And it’s pretty much impossible for that not to sound presumptuous, sorry.”

Derek laughed, tightening his grip on Stiles’ thighs before he stood up. Stiles shrieked a little—which was quite adorable, frankly—and clutched at Derek’s shoulders. “Holy shit. Wow, you really are strong.”

“I’ve never been to your bedroom, you know.”

“It’s pretty easy to find,” he said, jerking his head toward the hallway.

It was the first door, thank goodness—Stiles was lean but not exactly _light_ —and Derek gently kicked the door open before dropping Stiles on the bed, not-so-gently. He rolled with it, though, literally, and laughed, sprawled out on his back. He didn’t seem so inclined to move at the moment, and so Derek padded around the room, taking in the books on the shelves and the framed photos on the wall.

“Who’s this?” he asked, peering at a picture of Stiles in a hospital room, holding what appeared to be a newborn.

“Rachel,” Stiles said, coming up behind Derek and wrapping his arms around his waist. “My goddaughter, my best friend’s kid. They live in New York.”

Derek hummed. “She’s cute.”

“That’s sweet of you to say, but all newborns look like aliens. She’s cute now, though, she’s almost a year,” Stiles said, then tipped his forehead against the nape of Derek’s neck and squeezed. “Ugh, I can’t believe you still have your jacket on.”

“That sounds like a line.”

“Do I need a line right now?”

“No,” Derek admitted, turning around in the grip of Stiles’ arms. He wriggled out of his blazer and let it drop, but Stiles grabbed it before it could hit the ground.

“I’m not a heathen, I have hangers.”

“I’m not that concerned about wrinkles right now,” he said, trailing after Stiles toward his closet.

“And I very much appreciate that, you have no idea. But this probably costs more than I make in a month, so…”

Derek rolled his eyes. “It most definitely does not. Put the damn coat on a hanger and come over here.”

Stiles obeyed, and then Derek yanked the Dodgers hoodie off of him. He was wearing a Dodgers t-shirt underneath, and Derek laughed. “What?” Stiles claimed, gesturing to himself. “I thought I was gonna have to seduce you. I should have bought Dodgers boxers. They have those, right?”

“You’re such a dork,” Derek mumbled against his lips. “No seducing needed.”

“Oh, thank god,” Stiles said, feigning relief, “because I had this whole striptease thing planned, but I’m not very good at it, and—”

It was hard for two people to kiss while they were laughing, it turned out, which was a fact that Derek had never been lucky enough to learn before.

Derek tugged Stiles’ shirt up and off, tossing it over his shoulder, and let his eyes roam greedily. He’d seen plenty of guys shirtless, in locker rooms and what not, but he’d never been tempted to really _look_ before. Stiles’ shoulders were broad and his waist was trim, with very nice-looking pecs and abs in between.

“Okay, you’re making me self-conscious, stop it,” Stiles said finally, and Derek flushed.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, look all you want. As long as this gets to go, too,” he said, tugging Derek’s shirttails out of his pants.

Derek’s mouth was suddenly dry, so he just nodded and undid his cuffs.

“Did you know,” Stiles said conversationally as he worked at Derek’s buttons, “that I’ve never seen you without a shirt on.”

“Oh, is that so.”

“I know, right? I feel like I could have engineered some sort of scenario. Poor job, past me.”

Derek had skipped the undershirt that day, but before he could actually take off his shirt, he got shoved onto the bed and landed unceremoniously on his elbows. Stiles stared down at him, his mouth literally dropped open, and Derek flushed.

In strict opposition to what everyone _else_ thought, Derek never really gave a shit about what his body looked like. He cared about being strong enough to do his job, sure, and eating well enough to have _energy_ to do his job, but the aesthetics were just a side effect. Out of all the products of hard work, it wasn’t one that Derek had ever really cared about before.

But seeing the appreciation and the _hunger_ in Stiles’ eyes…Derek swallowed hard and maybe thought about it a little differently.

“Okay,” he said, after it had been about 60 seconds and Stiles still hadn’t said anything. “I feel like some kind of porn spread.”

He started to get up, but Stiles braced his knee on the bed and held Derek down with a hand on his chest. “Oh, no no no no no. You stay right there, pretty please.”

“Okay, just—”

Derek yanked Stiles on top of him and kissed him, hooking a leg over his to hold him in place when he squirmed. Stiles hummed happily and slumped to the side a little, pulling Derek over and sliding his big, warm hand up his ribs. They kissed leisurely, just enjoying the warm press of skin, until Stiles pulled back with a groan and rested his cheek against Derek’s chest.

“Right. Sleeping. _Not_ having sex.”

“That was your idea,” Derek reminded him, as he carefully slid out from underneath Stiles and headed for the ensuite bathroom, stripping off his shirt on the way.

“Holy shit!” Stiles yelped, and Derek whirled around, concerned. “You have a tattoo!”

“Oh,” he said, relaxing. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t know that, how come I didn’t know that?”

Derek shrugged and stepped closer, but Stiles grabbed his shoulder and forced him to turn back around. “It didn’t come up.”

“That should be part of your introductory small talk,” Stiles said absently, tracing the black lines with his index finger. “Hi, I’m Derek, and oh by the way, I have a very sexy tattoo on my back.”

“I’m sure that would go over well,” he said dryly.

“It’s a triskelion, right?” Stiles asked, and Derek nodded.

“Uh-huh. It’s kind of a family crest, I guess? Laura has one, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, fixing his gaze on the floor. “I was planning to get this done when I turned 18, to match Laura’s, but then there was the, uh, the accident. So we went to this sketchy place and Laura somehow claimed to be my guardian so I could get it early. My mom was so mad, I thought she was gonna ground us for the rest of our lives.”

Stiles laughed and braced his forehead against Derek’s shoulder before pressing a kiss to the middle of the tattoo. “Well, _I_ like it.”

“Can I go to the bathroom now?” he asked, and Stiles let him go with an overwrought sigh.

“Fine, if you insist. There’s a spare toothbrush in the bottom drawer on the left, I think.”

Derek washed up quickly and exchanged places with Stiles, then rummaged through his closet for another hanger for his pants.

“Do you need sweatpants or anything?” Stiles asked as he came out the bathroom, and Derek shrugged.

“I usually sleep in just boxers.”

“Just boxers is fine,” Stiles said quickly. “Totally fine. Exactly as fine as you look in just your boxers.”

Derek tried to give him a flat look, but it was hard to look unaffected when Stiles was waggling his eyebrows and generally just looking like an idiot. “You look like an idiot.”

“I don’t even care,” he said loftily as he brushed past Derek and tumbled down into bed. “You like it, don’t lie.”

“I admit nothing,” Derek replied, flicking off the lamp and climbing onto the bed far more decorously. Stiles yanked him in for a lingering kiss, then flipped around so he was on his side, facing away with his ass pressed against Derek’s hip.

“Just keep telling yourself that, babe,” Stiles said, reaching an arm behind himself blindly and patting Derek’s stomach.

* * *

Derek woke up warm, a little sweaty where Stiles’ hip was pressed against his thigh. Stiles was a squirmer, he’d found out, and he’d woken up more than once in the night to find Stiles in a different position. Still, one of the best nights of sleep he’d ever had.

And Stiles was awake, Derek was pretty sure, based on his shallow breathing. He ran a hand thorough Stiles’ hair slowly, and he pressed up into it with a little hum before rearranging himself so he was draped over Derek’s side.

“Hi. How’d you sleep?”

“Just fine,” Derek said. “How about you?”

“Good. When do you have to leave?” Stiles asked, his hand heavy against Derek’s abs as he nibbled along his collarbone. Derek tried not to dislodge it as he twisted his neck to look at the clock on the nightstand. It was still early, as he had guessed.

“Not for a few hours,” he said, and Stiles hummed. His leg was thrown casually over Derek’s thigh, just high enough that Derek could feel a hint of what he assumed was morning wood. The thought made him excited and nervous in equal measure, and he pulled at Stiles until he could reach his mouth for a kiss. Stiles drew back after just a second, though, and slapped at his shoulder.

Derek fell back against the pillows with a groan. “Ow.”

“Oh, please, Mr. Professional Athlete, I think you’re fine,” he said, squirming out from under Derek and crawling out of bed. “C’mon, brush those teeth.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” he called out over his shoulder. “Our relationship is too new for morning breath.”

Derek snorted but followed him obediently into the bathroom. They brushed their teeth companionably, hips bumping while Derek studied their reflections in the mirror and tried not to let his gaze drop to where Stiles’ dick was pretty clearly tenting his boxers.

Stiles spit—there was no way to make that sexy, he found out—and clapped Derek on the shoulder with a wink, jerking his head back toward the bedroom. “C’mon, slowpoke.”

Derek gulped and gave himself a lightning-quick, silent pep talk in the mirror before following him. Stiles was sitting at the edge of the bed, his feet tapping against the floor, and Derek pushed him back. The kiss _was_ better now, Derek could admit, all minty-fresh and clean, and his heart rate calmed a bit as they made out for a while, twisting around in the sheets. Stiles’ skin was so warm and surprisingly smooth under his hand, and Derek just kept sweeping his hand up and down his back.

“Is there anything you like or don’t like that I should know?” Stiles murmured, and Derek flushed. Sex had always been _fine_ , just kind of perfunctory. Derek had done what he was supposed to do, but nothing ever really felt good enough to be especially notable.

“I don’t, uh, really know,” he admitted, and Stiles grinned. His eyes were soft, though, as he pressed Derek gently onto his back and climbed on top of him.

“Okay,” he said, rearranging himself with a minimal amount of fumbling and only one quick jab to Derek’s ribs. “Just let me know if you don’t like something, yeah?”

Derek nodded and started to say something, but it got caught on a moan when Stiles started kissing around his throat. He should be doing something to reciprocate, definitely, but Stiles caught his hand when he fumbled at the hem of his boxers.

“Just relax, babe,” he said, pressing his hand down gently against the pillow. Derek tried, focusing on sinking down into the bed.

And then Stiles’ tongue swiped over his nipple, and Derek’s brain shorted out a little bit. “Oh, shit,” he gasped, arching up off the bed. “Okay, didn’t know about that.”

Stiles grinned and did it again, a little slower and a little harder. It was no less devastating. “I’m so jealous. My nipples are completely useless.”

“That’s a little harsh,” he managed to say, and Stiles laughed. He kept going, with both his tongue and his fingers, until Derek was thrusting up against him on autopilot and had to push him away.

Stiles levered himself up to straddle Derek’s lap and then grinded down, for just a couple, mind-melting seconds. He huffed a breathless laugh when Derek groaned. “Never underestimate the pleasure of good old-fashioned frottage.”

Derek grimaced, even as Stiles did it again. “Somebody really needs to invent a sexier name for that.”

“Because it sounds like cheese?” Stiles asked, grinning widely now, and Derek groaned.

“Because it sounds like cheese,” he admitted.

“Should we try to come up with something right now?” he wondered, moving his hips all the while. “Pre-penetration station. The grind—”

“Oh my god, please stop,” Derek pleaded, and Stiles froze. “No, not _that_.”

Stiles chuckled as Derek reached down and yanked at his hips, trying to get them back into a rhythm. “Okay,” he said, planting one hand on the bed next to Derek’s shoulder and trailing the other down his chest. He detoured to brush against Derek’s nipple again, making him gasp. “So sex now, brainstorming session later.”

“Sure,” Derek said, not paying attention to anything except how the hard line of Stiles’ dick was pressed against his own through their boxers. “I’ve thought about this before.”

He regretted the words pretty much instantly when Stiles groaned and stilled again. “Are you serious right now?”

“Okay, you’ve got to stop _stopping,_ ” Derek grumbled.

“Sorry, sorry,” he panted, grinding forward again, faster now. “But you can’t blame me when the hottest person I’ve ever seen in my entire life, basically, just admitted to thinking about me when he jerked off.”

“Please stop talking about me in third person. I’m right here.”

“You are so high maintenance,” Stiles hissed. “But that, uh, that was what you were saying, right?”

“Yeah,” Derek said. He had no idea where this burst of honesty was coming from, but at least Stiles seemed to be enjoying it. “When you were in Arizona. Took a shower, jerked off, thought about exactly this.”

Stiles groaned and tipped his forehead against Derek’s. “Oh, Jesus fuck. That is the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

The movement of Stiles’ hips was mesmerizing and devastating in equal measure, and Derek was actually going to come in his boxers, god. “What about—what about you?”

Stiles snorted, even as he tilted his hips and came down a little harder, increasing the friction. “Are you serious? Ever since I met you, you have literally been the only person in my spank bank.”

“You should, uh, tell me what you thought about. Sometime.”

Stiles gasped, his eyes screwing shut, and he pressed a sloppy-opened mouth kiss to Derek’s jaw. He groaned, loudly, right in Derek’s ear, and his hips jerked several times in quick succession before he stilled with a heavy sigh.

Holy _shit_.

Derek was pretty sure he’d never been more turned on in his entire life, and it was from watching someone else have an orgasm. With the few people he’d had sex with in the past, he didn’t really get anything out of giving them pleasure. He’d _cared_ , because he wasn’t a total asshole, but it hadn’t really done anything for him personally. This, though…this was something completely different.

Derek cleared his throat. “Wow, you must have been thinking about something really good.”

Stiles laughed and lifted himself up onto his hands. His arms were shaking slightly, and Derek slid his hands up his forearms to his shoulders, under the guise of bracing him. “You could say that. My _favorite_ fantasy, since you asked, is this particular one where I’m up on my knees, kinda holding onto the headboard, and you, my good sir, are fucking the hell out of me.”

Derek stared up at him, blinking slowly, and Stiles’ mouth spread into a wide grin. “Um—”

“Is that specific enough for you?”

Derek searched for words, but nothing was coming to him except for some very vivid mental pictures. As if Stiles could read his mind, he kept grinning as he slid to the side a little.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his hand hovering over the bulge in Derek’s boxers. Derek’s hips hitched up a little, unconsciously, and he nodded faster than was probably smooth.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s—you can do that,” he said. Stiles didn’t even tease or anything, thank the lord, he just dropped that big, warm hand right over Derek’s dick and squeezed. “Oh, shit.”

Stiles lunged up and sealed his mouth against Derek’s, and Derek, clumsily, returned it. Stiles didn’t seem to mind taking control, though, so Derek attempted to relax under the attention.

Stiles’ hand was perfect, sliding and squeezing as he scraped the heel of his hand up the length of Derek’s dick. It was building at the base of Derek’s spine, and he was pretty sure he couldn’t feel his legs anymore. He sucked in a quick breath and then jackknifed up a little bit as he came with a groan, dislodging Stiles and making him laugh delightedly, his eyes wide. “Holy fuck,” Derek said, licking his lips. “Oh my god.”

“Shit, you are pretty when you come,” Stiles said, continuing to rub at him gently. He was breathing hard himself, and Derek kissed him, nibbling at his lower lip while he twisted his hips to get his sensitive dick away from Stiles’ searching fingers. “Are you okay?”

Derek nodded dumbly. The past 20 minutes had been far more intense than any of the actual penetrative sex Derek had in the past, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to inflate Stiles’ ego any more than necessary.

“That was the best,” he blurted out.

Shit.

Goddamn his brain-to-mouth filter, which was apparently useless after he had just come his brains out.

Stiles looked thrilled, though, and he clambered up Derek’s body to kiss him again. “I agree.”

The matching wet patches in their boxers pressed together with the movement, and both of them winced. “You have a towel or something?” Derek asked, and Stiles laughed.

He stumbled off to the bathroom on slightly-shaky legs and came back naked, wiping at his stomach with a washcloth. Derek eagerly shucked his own boxers and let Stiles clean him off.

“So is it nap time now?” Stiles asked, turning onto his side and yanking Derek’s arm across his body. Derek’s eyes were indeed pretty heavy, his body pleasantly tired, and he tucked his nose against Stiles’ hair as he closed his eyes.

* * *

5:17 PM **Stiles:** I know we weren’t planning on it, but could I see you tonight?  
  
**Derek:** It’ll be late?  
  
**Stiles:** I know. I can come to your place.  
  
**Derek:** Sure. You have a key, go over whenever.

* * *

Derek let himself into his apartment and smiled—he could get used to coming home to the sight of Stiles asleep on his couch, wearing a Dodgers jersey. Sleeping in his _bed_ might be better, honestly, but…baby steps.

Derek put his bag down and padded lightly over to the kitchen, but Stiles didn’t stir. Heavy sleeper, apparently. He got his trusty ice pack from the freezer and wrapped it around his shoulder, then quickly downed a protein shake and a glass of water.

SportsNet LA was still on the TV, the post-game analysts chattering away, and Derek turned it off with a wince when he heard his name. Stiles was sprawled out on his stomach, so Derek kneeled next to the couch and laid a hand on his back, right over his own name on the jersey. “Stiles,” he said loudly. Stiles blinked blearily and groaned a little, curling toward him.

“Hey,” he rasped, clearing his throat as he pushed up onto his elbows. His hair was sticking up in a million directions, and it only looked worse when he ran his hand through it.

“Hello,” Derek said, dipping down to press a gentle kiss to his lips. Stiles returned it with a little hum, then sat up and twisted his neck until it popped.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the game tonight. Sitting on your couch and wearing your jersey was as close as I could get. Good job, by the way.”

Derek shrugged. He’d thrown a respectable seven innings, but he’d felt a little off and gave up three runs. The Dodgers’ offense had done a good job, though, and pulled through with _six_ runs, so at least he hadn’t gotten the loss. “It was okay. Curveball felt bad.”

“Well, it looked good on TV.”

Derek snorted and sat down next to Stiles, who immediately curled into his chest, avoiding the ice pack. “How are you, how was your day?”

Stiles hummed happily and trailed his fingers across Derek’s stomach under his shirt. “I had a pretty good reason for not being able to come to the game.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“The, uh, movie deal is done. Signed all the paperwork and everything.”

Derek blinked and jostled Stiles so that they were facing each other. “Holy shit, are you serious?”

“Yeah,” he said, his face splitting into a wide grin. “I didn’t want to tell you until it was all over.”

Derek tackled him down onto the couch for a full-body hug. They wrestled for a minute, Stiles laughing and trying to dodge Derek’s tickles, until he ended up on top, with one of Derek’s legs wrapped around his hip.

“That’s amazing, Stiles,” he said. “We should—”

Derek cut himself off with a sharp inhale, and Stiles frowned.

“What? Your face just got super depressed there, dude.”

Derek swallowed. “I was, uh, gonna say that we should get dressed up and I’ll take you out for a fancy dinner, to celebrate. But we can’t…can’t do that.”

The light in Stiles’ eyes dimmed a little, and Derek hated himself, for doing anything to diminish Stiles’ special moment.

“Right,” he said slowly, untangling himself from Derek’s grip to sit up fully. “Because you’re not out.”

Derek scrambled to sit next to him. “I—shit. This is so new, you know? I haven’t even really thought about it.”

Stiles nodded, still frowning, and Derek forced himself to keep going.

“But I couldn’t…I know that I can’t just come out right now. I _know_ that’s unfair to you, and I understand if it’s a deal breaker,” he said, trying to sound confident and not as if just the notion was enough to make him want to cry.

“It might be,” Stiles said slowly, and Derek’s heart sank, “in any other scenario. But not here.”

Derek exhaled, his shoulders slumping in relief. “Really? Why?”

“Do I wish you could just, like, host a press conference tomorrow and say hey, turns out I’m _not_ so straight and am in fact dating this handsome lad? Sure,” Stiles said, shrugging. “But this isn’t exactly a normal scenario, and I understand that. I’m willing to keep this on the down low.”

Derek wrapped an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and pressed a kiss to his hair. _I love you_ was on the tip of his tongue, but he knew this was not the time for that. “Thank you,” he said instead, even though it sounded thoroughly inadequate.

“You’re lucky I like you, you big lug,” Stiles said, smacking his stomach with the back of his hand.

“I am,” he said seriously, and Stiles turned into his grip with a groan.

“I forget that you’re such a sap,” he said. “And no one would ever believe me.”

“Nope,” he whispered, and Stiles laughed.

“So what do you think about coming out? Eventually, I mean.”

Derek sighed. “I have no idea. Someday, yeah. But I’m…I’m young, you know? I feel like I’d have to prove myself first.”

In baseball, the team came first. Everyone knew that. And Derek _also_ knew that if he came out, it’d be a distraction. He hadn’t proved himself to be worthy of that kind of sacrifice.

Stiles groaned and stood up, pacing in a circle around the couch and the coffee table. “That’s so fucking dumb,” he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “That you have to be _good enough_ to be gay. Or bi, whatever.”

Derek swallowed, and Stiles dropped back down on the couch next to him.

“I’m not yelling at you,” he said gently, ducking in for a kiss. “I swear. Just…yelling at the situation. If I were in your shoes, I’m sure I’d be doing the same thing.”

Derek nodded. “What if we went out with Boyd and Erica sometime soon? To celebrate the movie deal. It’ll be a double date, even if no one else knows about it,” he added, smiling softly, and Stiles grinned.

“As long as we can also tell him that I get to sex you up on a regular basis now.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Erica would love that, please don’t put it that way.”

“Who else should we tell?” he asked, and Derek shrugged.

“Anyone we can trust.”

Stiles hummed. “Well, my dad, obviously. Scott. My agent. Is that…okay?”

“Of course. It’s your relationship, too.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one who has more at stake,” he said, and Derek swallowed, choosing to ignore that for a moment.

“I’m sorry this derailed your happy news. I’m really proud of you.”

“I’m sure we could could come up with other ways for you to appropriately express your congratulations,” Stiles said, sliding his hand up Derek’s thigh before he caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall and groaned. “Oh my god, why do we have all our important conversations so late?”

“Because I work the night shift,” Derek said, grinning, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Okay, fair,” he said, standing and tugging on their joined hands. “C’mon, let’s go to bed.”

* * *

“You look nice,” Derek whispered, knocking Stiles’ elbow with his own. Stiles flushed a little, but he looked pleased. They’d picked a nicer restaurant than usual for brunch, and Stiles was wearing nice slacks and a button-down shirt, open at the neck.

“You, too,” he said, resting his hand on Derek’s forearm for a second in a gesture that could be construed as casual. “Obviously.”

Derek swallowed. He wanted nothing more than to lean forward and kiss him, on the lips and on that spot on his neck that made him shiver, but he _couldn’t_. He settled for a tight smile instead and stepped up to the little stand.

“Reservation for Hale,” he said politely, and the young woman there gave him a wide smile before looking down at her computer.

“Ah, yes. Expecting four, correct?”

“Right. Still waiting on two.”

She grabbed two menus and smiled at Derek again, ignoring Stiles completely. He rested his on Stiles’ back for as long as he dared—about three seconds—and followed the woman to a table tucked away in the back corner.

“I’ll send your friends back when they get here,” the hostess said, resting her hand on Derek’s shoulder for a second too long and squeezing before flouncing away.

Stiles made a face behind her back, and Derek kicked him under the table. “Behave.”

“Never,” he whispered back, and Derek rolled his eyes.

Boyd and Erica showed up just a few minutes later, and Derek stood up to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“So why are we here, lookin’ all fancy?” Erica said, twirling her hair around one finger as she leaned forward. “Why, what could you two _possibly_ have to tell us?”

“You get three guesses,” Stiles said, and Derek winced when Erica’s face lit up.

“No, she’ll use all three, and they’ll all be embarrassing,” he interjected, and Boyd laughed.

“You know me too well,” Erica said with a theatrical pout.

“Anyway,” he said, ignoring her, “yes, Stiles and I are dating. Uh, secretly, obviously.”

He said the last part with a wince, but no one else seemed fazed. Erica clapped her hands quietly, with an excited look on her face. “Okay, how’d it happen?” she asked, waggling her eyebrows, and Derek shook his head.

“Absolutely n—”

“There were candles,” Stiles said, looking at Derek with an overly-dramatic lovesick look, “and terrible poetry and maybe a mix tape.”

Erica laughed, and Derek sighed. “None of that happened.”

“Is that why you were so damn moody on that road trip?” Boyd asked.

Stiles smirked. “Aw, were you pining after me?”

“No, I—”

“He was totally pining,” Boyd interrupted, and Derek glared at him.

“But that’s the small news, actually,” Derek said, tipping his head toward Stiles and giving him a knowing look.

“The movie deal went through for my books. All the paperwork’s signed and everything.”

Erica cheered, loud enough that several of the nearby tables looked over, and she got up to hug Stiles. “Wow, Stiles, congratulations. That’s amazing.”

“Thanks,” he said, ducking his head with a little smile. Derek slid his hand onto his thigh, and Stiles intertwined their fingers. “It’s been a good week.”


	6. June

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has a mild panic attack in this chapter, from Derek's POV.
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone for all the sweet comments here and on [Tumblr](http://www.leslieknopeismyspiritanimal.tumblr.com), and continued thanks to [cobrilee](http://www.cobrilee.tumblr.com/) for being such a good cheerleader!

Derek hissed out a breath and arched up as Stiles’ teeth scraped over his nipple. He was hard, and he could very obviously feel against his hip that Stiles was, too. It had been a few weeks, but with their busy schedules and a mutual desire to take things slow, they hadn’t done anything in bed except for rub off together a few more times.

Derek’s heart was hammering, and he was having a tough time catching his breath—he’d had a stressful day, and Stiles had jumped him as soon as he walked through the door. He was on the knife-edge of pleasure, right at the balance where it was in danger of tipping over into something more unpleasant, and he tangled his hand in Stiles’ hair to tug him away from his chest.

Stiles went easily, lunging up to sweep Derek into a deep kiss. His hands were so sure and confident as they swept down Derek’s body, like this was something he did all the time. His hips moved sinuously, and he so easily shifted his balance so that he had a free hand, which immediately started squeezing Derek’s dick

Inexplicably, Derek’s brain started wandering. What if Stiles _did_ do this all the time? What if it—what if it didn’t really mean anything to him? Were they even…they hadn’t even had the conversation about whether or not they were exclusive, had they? Oh, shit.

“Stop,” Derek bit out, and Stiles froze for a second above him before scrambling off to the side.

“What, Derek, what? Did I hurt you?”

Stiles’ face was so open, so concerned—Derek was a terrible person. He slammed his eyes shut and swallowed, then tried to take a deep breath. His face was flushed, he could tell.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice quiet. “I just…got a little overwhelmed.”

“Hey,” Stiles said, his voice pitched low as he rested his hand gingerly on Derek’s shoulder, “don’t apologize. It’s fine. Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Can you just…give me a second?”

Stiles nodded immediately, his lower lip caught in between his teeth, and Derek tried to suck in another deep breath and get his thoughts under control.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s dumb—”

“It’s _not_ dumb,” he said fiercely. “Stop that. Are we—are we going too fast?”

Derek grimaced. “Oh my god, this is so stupid,” he said, his voice veering suspiciously close to a whine. He rolled away from Stiles, twisting over onto his stomach, and stuck his head under the pillow. Stiles laughed and tugged at his shoulder.

“It’s not, I promise. C’mon, c’mere.”

Derek didn’t budge, but Stiles kept pressing kissing to his shoulders and making soothing noises. Finally, when Stiles’ nicknames got so absurd that he couldn’t help but laugh, he flipped back over onto his back.

“I’m not saying this to judge you,” Derek started. “I swear. But it’s probably gonna come off that way, and I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, looking wary. “What is it?”

Derek licked his lips. “You’re…you’re just really _good_ at this. And I had a hard day and wasn’t super into it, and then I started thinking about whether or not I was just a, uh, another…conquest, or whatever. Which is totally dumb and unfair, I’m sorry. And _then_ I started thinking that we hadn’t even really talked about being exclusive, and—”

Stiles cut him off with a kiss, soft enough that Derek started to calm down a little. He twisted into it, maneuvering them so that his leg was hooked over one of Stiles’ and they were on their sides, facing each other.

“Der,” Stiles said, resting his hand on Derek’s chest. “I’ve been _exclusive_ with you since I met you, you just didn’t know it. The only date I’ve even been on this year, besides you, was with that one asshole I told you about. And I only did that because I was trying to get over you, which was practically the definition of an exercise in futility.”

Derek swallowed, his brain spinning in circles as he tried to process what Stiles had just said. “Well. I feel silly now. I’m sorry I freaked out.”

Stiles laughed and kissed him again, sweeping his tongue in for just a second. “No. We should have talked about it sooner. I’m sorry.”

“I feel the same way, you know,” Derek said, stumbling over his words. “About you.”

Stiles grinned and yanked their bodies closer. “I can safely say that I haven’t felt like this about anyone before.”

Derek sighed. He wasn’t hard at all anymore, and he was pretty sure Stiles was in the same boat. “I ruined the mood. I’m—”

Stiles rolled on top of him, pinning him down, and glared, the corners of his mouth turning down in a mock frown. “If you say you’re sorry one more time…”

Derek planted his foot and used it as leverage to quickly flip their positions. “You’ll what?” he said, quirking one eyebrow. Stiles huffed and rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

“Okay, okay, you’re all big and strong, I get it.”

“Good,” Derek said, fake-haughty as he slid off and maneuvered them so that he was spooning Stiles.

“Sleep?” Stiles said. His voice was already thick and kinda drowsy, and his eyes were already closed as he snuggled closer into the curve of Derek’s body.

“Yeah,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ hair. “Sleep.”

* * *

Derek rolled over with a yawn and opened his eyes just a crack so he could see the clock on the nightstand. 3:17 a.m. Not time to get up yet, good. He felt himself drifting back to sleep already and automatically reached out for Stiles, but there wasn’t anything there. He frowned and sat up, reaching over again. The sheets were cold, even.

Still a little disoriented, Derek looked around. Stiles didn’t have insomnia or sleepwalking problems or anything, at least as far as Derek knew, so where the hell was he? But then his eyes caught a thin sliver of light coming from under the closed door to the bathroom, and he exhaled.

He rolled over again, searching for the vestiges of sleep. It didn’t come, though, no matter how many times he twisted and turned, and finally, he looked at the clock again. 3:26.

He wouldn’t be able to fall asleep like this, so with a sigh, Derek heaved himself out of bed and rapped his knuckles lightly on the bathroom door. “Stiles? Is everything okay?”

“Derek?” he said, clearly surprised. “I’m fine, just go back to bed.”

Derek frowned. Stiles didn’t _seem_ fine—in fact, he sounded panicked and somewhat stilted. The doorknob gave in Derek’s hand when he tried it, but he didn’t go in, not yet. “Are you sure? What’s going on?”

It was silent. “Just…just go back to bed.”

“Stiles,” he said, leaning his forehead against the door. “Please let me in.”

 _And let me help_ , he added in his head.

“Okay,” Stiles said finally, after the longest 15 seconds of Derek’s life, and he blew out his breath in a long exhale before slowly pushing the door open.

Stiles was sitting on the floor, his back braced against the side of the tub and his arms wrapped loosely around his knees. His gaze was fixed on the ground and vacant, almost, and Derek crossed the space between them in one stride.

“Stiles,” he said urgently, crouching down in front of him. He reached out to touch him but hesitated, scanning him for any visible injuries. “What’s wrong? Are you okay, are you hurt?”

He swallowed visibly and nodded. “M’okay. Having a panic attack.”

Holy shit.

A lot of questions were flashing through Derek’s mind, and while he didn’t really know a lot about panic attacks, he figured that showing panic on _his_ side probably wouldn’t be helpful. So he took a deep breath and tried to speak quietly.

“Has this happened before?”

Nod.

“Is there anything I can get for you? Water or medication or anything?”

Shake.

“Do you want to sit somewhere else?”

Shake.

“Can I—can I touch you?”

Stiles hesitated for a second and then nodded, so Derek sat down carefully next to him and wrapped one arm around his shoulders. Stiles sagged against him, slumping down a little. His breaths were clearly off-rhythm, with each one sounding like a struggle, and Derek grimaced. He was a fixer by nature, he knew, and it was torture to sit there and just watch Stiles in pain without being able to do something about it.

Finally, after what felt like an hour but was probably only 15 minutes or so, Stiles turned his face into Derek’s shoulder and blew out one steady breath. “I think the worst of it is over.”

 _Oh, thank god_.

“You want to go back to bed?” he asked softly, and Stiles nodded.

“Yeah. My ass is like, completely numb.”

Derek snorted—he was in the same boat, actually—and carefully stood up before taking both of Stiles’ hands in his and helping him up. He seemed a little shaky, so Derek wrapped his arm around his waist under the guise of a half-hug and guided him back to bed.

They laid there in silence for a few minutes, with Stiles half-draped over Derek, but he was pretty sure that Stiles wasn’t asleep yet. “Did something happen?” he asked softly. “Was it—was it something I said or did? Because of what happened earlier?”

Stiles shook his head. “No, they just…happen randomly, I guess. I just wake up in the middle of the night and can’t breathe.”

God, how awful. “How long has that been happening?”

Stiles didn’t say anything for a minute and just kept tracing a random pattern with his fingers onto the thin skin stretched over Derek’s ribs. “I have anxiety. It was worse when I was younger, after my mom died. I was seeing a therapist and on medication then, but I haven’t done that in a long time. I do have Xanax, but I don’t like to take them, they make me feel weird. I only get the panic attacks a few times a year.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Derek asked, trying to keep his voice gentle.

Stiles shrugged. “It’s embarrassing.”

“It is _not_ embarrassing,” he shot back, and he felt Stiles burrow further into his neck.

“I know,” he said quietly, his voice muffled.

“How else does it affect your life?”

Stiles shrugged again. “I’m an anxious person in general. Sometimes I get too overwhelmed and just need to disengage for a bit.”

Derek nodded. “Can you—can we talk about this more? Like, in general. I want you to feel comfortable telling me things.”

Stiles pulled back at that, so that they could look at each other, and nodded. “I do, I promise. I mean, I know it’s not a weakness or anything, but, you know, _vulnerability_.”

He said it like it was a dirty word, and Derek laughed. “Yeah, I know. And maybe wake me up next time?”

Stiles groaned and dropped his head back down so it was braced on Derek’s shoulder. “Okay,” he said finally.

“Good. Can we go to sleep now?”

Stiles snuggled closer, tangling their legs, and Derek could feel the curve of his smile against his neck.

* * *

“Hale! Fly balls, right field.”

Derek lifted his glove in acknowledgement and slipped his sunglasses on. He wasn’t pitching today, which meant his standard pre-game activity was shagging balls in the outfield during batting practice. It was pretty boring, actually, but the routine was comforting. Baseball would always be the same, no matter how much the rest of his life was changing.

And changing it was—after their little exclusivity conversation, he and Stiles came to the conclusion that they were likely in it for the long haul and should probably start telling some people.

Stiles broke the news to his dad, whose only disappointment was that he couldn’t brag about Derek to his deputies. Derek took that as a good sign and promised him Dodger tickets whenever he wanted, which seemed to appease him.

His mom acted completely _un_ surprised when Derek admitted that he and Stiles were dating, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He almost didn’t even want to _tell_ Laura, but he bit the bullet and did it anyway. He only endured Laura’s hysterical laughter for about 20 seconds before he hung up on her.

In fact, the only person who _hadn’t_ taken the news well was…standing next to the dugout? What the hell?

“Lydia!” he called out, jogging toward her. Her gaze swung toward him, and she tilted her head.

“Hello, Derek.”

“How did you even get _in_ here?” he asked, and she rolled her eyes, visible even through her surely-expensive sunglasses.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Derek sighed. He didn’t know anything about shoes, but the stilettos on her feet _looked_ expensive, and he was guessing that she didn’t want to stand in dirt for a minute longer than she had to. He led her to the first row of seats behind the dugout. Since pre-game batting practice was still going on, Derek positioned himself so that he could keep an eye out for foul balls and protect Lydia if necessary. He didn’t like her much, based on their interactions so far, but he didn’t want her to get _hurt._

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to apologize for how I acted the other night,” she said primly, and Derek stared at her.

When he and Stiles had talked about who they were going to tell about their relationship, Derek had been a little surprised that Stiles’ agent was on the list, at least until he explained that she was actually one of his oldest childhood friends. And so a couple nights ago, on Derek’s last off day, Lydia had come over for dinner, which turned out to be one of the more uncomfortable experiences in Derek’s recent memory. She had disliked him on the spot, for no apparent reason, and Stiles finally had to ask her to leave.

“Did Stiles put you up to this?” he asked, suspicious, and she gave him a flat look.

“Please. Stiles would prefer it if I never spoke to you again.”

 _Yeah, I would, too_ , Derek thought, but he was smart enough not to say it. “So. Your apology.”

Lydia quirked one eyebrow at him, but it looked suspiciously like respect. “I—I’ve been friends with Stiles for a long time, you know?” she said, and Derek nodded. “It took him a long time to be comfortable with who he was. He’s… _quirky_ , as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Yes,” Derek said cautiously. Was this some sort of test? “That’s why I like him.”

“And I didn’t exactly always do a good job at contributing to his self-acceptance. I can admit that I went through phases in which my popularity in school took precedence over my friendship with Stiles.”

Lydia looked as unsure as he’d ever seen her—ashamed, almost, with her gaze fixed on her hands folded in her lap. “He and I have moved past that,” she continued, “and I like to think of myself as a better person now. But as you can imagine, I’m very wary when it seems like someone is treating Stiles like their dirty little secret.”

Derek swallowed against the bitter taste of shame rising in his throat. “It’s not—it’s not like that between us.”

“I know,” she said genuinely, looking up at him. “I made a snap assessment of the situation, and I was quick to judge. But Stiles explained the situation a little bit more, and I realize there are things I didn’t quite understand. I was unfair to you, and I apologize.”

“Thank you,” he said slowly, his mind still whirling a bit.

Lydia rested her hand on his knee. “I’m sorry that you can’t be as open as you’d like to be. I’m sure it must be really hard for you.”

“I’m sorry that it affects Stiles. I—” Derek bit back the words that were on the tip of his tongue. “I care about him very much.”

“I see that now.”

“And I really hate that we can’t be public about this, believe me.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, he thinks you’re worth it.”

She said it so plainly, as if it were any well-known fact, and Derek froze.

“I hope I can be,” he said finally, and she smiled.

“I have no doubt. I’ll let you get back to your…whatever it is that you were doing.”

“I’ll take it you aren’t a baseball fan?”

“Not in the least. I enjoy the tight pants, though.”

Derek laughed. “Well, maybe you can come to a game sometime with Stiles. He likes the tight pants, too.”

“I’ll bet,” she murmured, giving him a considering gaze, and Derek flushed.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said quickly.

One of the guys whistled as they passed through the clubhouse, and Lydia rolled her eyes so hard Derek was surprised they didn’t fall out of her head. “Fuck off,” she snapped, and the guy looked so surprised that Derek had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. “I’ll try not to lump you in with the rest of these neanderthals.”

“I wouldn’t blame you.” As a whole, athletes were kind of the worst.

Lydia paused at the door. “Thank you for listening. You would have been well within your rights to refuse to speak to me.”

“You’re important to Stiles,” he said simply, and she smiled up at him.

“As are you.”

* * *

3:15 PM **Derek:** I had an interesting visitor at the stadium today.  
  
**Stiles:**????  
  
**Derek:** Lydia.  
  
**Stiles:** Are you serious? Did she just track you down to yell at you some more? I am going to KILL HER, I swear.  
  
**Stiles:** I'm so sorry.  
  
**Derek:** No, she apologized. We had a good talk. She loves you a lot.  
  
**Stiles:** Yeah, I would prefer that love to not involve being mean to my boyfriend.  
  
**Derek:** I don’t think she’s going to be mean anymore.  
  
**Stiles:** She better not, if she knows what’s good for her.  
  
**Derek:** Is this you defending my honor?  
  
**Stiles:** Um, in theory? But I’m fairly confident Lydia could take me down pretty easily, so…  
  
**Derek:** I'll take it.

* * *

Derek yawned and leaned against the pillar in the hotel lobby. They’d played an afternoon game in Denver earlier that day, and while Derek didn’t pitch in the game, he’d worked out a _lot_ , and he was exhausted. If it were up to him, he’d grab a sandwich and eat it in the comfort of his fluffy hotel bed while watching a dumb sitcom. But there was apparently some pizza place in the neighborhood that Patty loved, and Derek agreed to go with him and Jackson and Boyd for dinner.

“Oh, shit,” he said, grimacing as he patted his back pocket. “I forgot my wallet in my room. Give me two minutes?”

“Yeah, no sweat,” Patty said, without looking up from his phone. “We’re still waiting on Boyd, anyway.”

They didn’t always have roommates on road trips, but they did this time and Derek was with Danny. But he hadn’t been in the room when Derek left about 10 minutes ago, so he didn’t bother to knock and just swiped his key card.

He froze as soon as he stepped in, his jaw dropping at the sight of Danny with some guy pressed against the wall by the door, locked in what appeared to be a very fierce kiss. Derek must have made some kind of surprised noise because they broke away from each other and both stared at him, their eyes wide.

“Derek,” Danny started, his face tight as he took a step forward, and Derek held both hands up.

“It’s fine,” he said immediately. “Totally fine. I swear. I’m sorry I didn’t knock, I didn’t know you were in here.”

Danny still seemed shellshocked, and the other guy looked as if he was trying to push back against the wall hard enough to disappear through it. Derek vaguely recognized him, actually, from the Rockies bullpen…Ethan something, maybe?

Derek had no idea how to handle this situation—he tried to think of what he would want someone to say if they caught him and Stiles. “I obviously won’t, uh, tell anyone,” he tried, and they both looked relieved. He cleared his throat and tried for a little smirk. “I’m going to dinner with some of the guys, so I’ll be gone for about an hour and a half. I’ll text before I come back.”

Danny laughed, still looking a little embarrassed, and rubbed at the back of his neck before folding both arms across his chest. “Okay. Thanks, dude.”

Derek’s wallet was right where he remembered leaving it, next to the TV on top of the dresser, and he edged by Ethan to grab it, shooting him what was hopefully a reassuring smile.

“Have fun,” he added, right before he pulled the door closed behind him, and he heard Danny laugh.

The elevator ride back down to the lobby was a blur, and Boyd gave him a questioning look as soon as he approached the group. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Derek said quickly, probably too quickly. “Fine.”

He didn’t contribute much to the conversation at dinner, which thankfully wasn’t enough of an aberration to be noticed and commented upon. His thoughts were busy whirring—it was like Stiles had said, he knew there must be other non-straight guys in the league…but now he _knew_ one. And it was _Danny._

Once they left the restaurant, Derek took out his phone to text Danny, as promised.

9:28 PM **Derek:** I'll be back in 10 min.  
  
**Danny:** Coast is clear, don’t worry *halo emoji*

Derek let himself into their room and tentatively smiled at Danny, who was sitting at the end of his bed, his hair damp like he just took a shower.

“So,” Danny said, sitting up a little taller and squaring his shoulders. “I’m gay. Not very many people know, outside my family, so…there it is. Please don’t tell anyone.”

Derek scratched at his beard and sat down next to him. This was a risk, but— “I, uh, I actually have a boyfriend.”

Danny’s jaw dropped as he twisted to gape at him. “Holy shit. Are you—wow, really?”

Derek nodded.

“Oh, wait, is it your friend I’ve met? Stiles?”

“Yeah,” he said with a snort. “That’s him.”

“He’s super hot,” Danny said admiringly. “Nice job.”

Derek laughed—this was more than a little surreal—and nodded. “Yeah,” he said again.

“How long have you guys been together?”

“Officially, not long. It’s, uh, kind of new? We’ve been friends for a while, though. He’s the first guy that I’ve dated.”

“Aw, congratulations,” Danny said, smiling, and Derek ducked his head. “So you’re…bi, then?”

Derek nodded. Bi was close enough.

“And is it serious?”

“Uh, yeah,” Derek said, straightening a little. He didn’t get to casually talk about Stiles, obviously, like any of his teammates did about the girls they were dating, and it felt exhilarating, almost, just to answer the basic questions. “It is, actually.”

“Wow, dude, that’s awesome,” Danny said, knocking their elbows together.

“Thanks. What about you? That guy’s Ethan, right?” Derek asked, and Danny nodded. “Are you guys, uh, together?”

“Nah,” he said, with a little chuckle. “We just hook up whenever we’re in the same city.”

“Are there, um, others?” he asked, awkwardly, and Danny laughed.

“You make it sound like some kind of illicit underground railroad. But yeah, there are other not-straight guys in the league. I’m not gonna tell you who they are, though.”

“I’m not asking,” Derek said quickly. “I was just…curious. Does, uh, does anyone else know? About you? On the team, I mean.”

“Jackson,” he said, and Derek nodded, remembering.

“Oh, yeah. You guys grew up together, right?”

“Yeah. He’s known since I was like, 12. What about you?”

“Boyd knows,” Derek said, “and I was thinking about telling Patty.”

Most baseball teams didn’t have captains, but if the Dodgers did, Patty would definitely be it. He was also Derek’s unofficial mentor on the team, and he knew that if he wanted to come out to anyone else within the Dodgers, Patty should be first.

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Is anyone, uh, thinking of coming out?”

“I have no idea. Are you?”

Derek hesitated and scrubbed his hands down his jeans. “I really hate the thought of anyone knowing anything about my personal life. But it’s gonna suck to hide this forever.”

Danny nodded. “If I was in a relationship, like a really serious one, I would think about coming out. But I don’t know if it’d be worth it before then. And being the first one would be the hardest.”

“Yeah,” Derek said, looking down at his hands.

“I think everyone would accept it, though. I mean, they’d have to, you know? At least publicly.”

“Yeah,” he said again. Privately was another story, as was the reaction of the fans, obviously. But the organization, the league, the media…they’d have to support it outwardly. “It’s covered under the harassment and discrimination policy, right?”

“As of a few years ago. But who knows what the hell that means.”

* * *

Derek was watching the game from the dugout, his elbows braced against the railing, when Danny came up beside him and knocked their shoulders together. “That hot dude in the second row is totally checking you out,” he said lowly, and Derek ducked his head, flushing. He had no idea who he was talking about.

“He is not,” he said anyway. A lot of the guys passed the time by looking for pretty girls in the stands, and Danny apparently enjoyed a similar pastime, as well. “He’s probably looking at _you_.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Danny said, chancing a look over his shoulder. “Oh, wait, nope, it’s definitely you.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “So this is our friendship now?” he asked, keeping their conversation to a whisper. They were at the end of the dugout, and with the crowd and game noise, no one should be able to hear them. “We talk about boys?”

“Yep,” Danny said, his dimples flashing, and Derek groaned. “The other part of our friendship is that now you get to dish about your sex life.”

“Nope,” Derek said immediately. “Not going there.”

“I bet it’s good, though, isn’t it?” Danny said, grinning even wider. “He has really nice hands.”

Derek dropped his forehead onto the railing and groaned again. “Oh my god, please stop talking.”

Danny laughed and slung an arm around Derek’s shoulders, ruffling his hair under his hat. “Holy shit, you are as red as a _tomato_. But I’ll stop.”

“Thank you,” he said, lifting his head again. “But why have you been looking at my boyfriend’s _hands_?”

“I don’t have to answer that,” Danny said, attempting a faux-innocent look before jogging away. Derek huffed, but he had to bite back a smile because of how _normal_ it felt.

* * *

9:32 PM **Stiles:** Fuckin’ awesome start, dude, congrats. *heart eyes emoji*  
  
11:48 PM **Stiles:** I have a meeting in the morning, so I gotta go to bed. Hope you guys pull this one out.  
  
**Stiles:** I downloaded Snapchat on your phone, by the way. You should probably check it (alone) when you get to the hotel. *winky tongue emoji*

* * *

Derek’s breath caught in his throat when he finally checked his phone and saw Stiles’ texts, plus the dozen Snapchat notifications. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew what most people used Snapchat for, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine what Stiles would possibly send him.

The 10-minute bus ride back to the hotel felt interminable, and Derek’s phone was burning a hole in his pocket, he swore. He _should_ be tired—he pitched seven innings, and the Dodgers finally pulled out a 3-2 win in the 14 th inning—but he was practically vibrating with energy.

Once they were finally back in the room, Derek kept staring at his phone, and Danny must have noticed because he smirked at him. “You got a hot phone sex date or something?”

Derek flushed a dark red. “Uh, no?”

“You don’t have to tell me, dude,” Danny said, laughing. “It’s fine.”

“He downloaded Snapchat on my phone,” Derek blurted out. “And, uh, _sent things_. I think. But I have no idea how Snapchat works.”

Danny laughed at him again for a solid 20 seconds, and Derek rolled his eyes.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he said finally. “As much as I want to see exactly what kind of photos you got—because _believe_ me, I do—we can use my phone. Come here.”

Danny pulled out his phone, and Derek edged closer. “Fine.”

So he got a five-minute crash course in Snapchat, and when he was confident that he wouldn’t send a picture of his dick to the whole world, at least, Danny clapped him on the shoulder and stood up.

“I’m going downstairs for a while. Apparently some of the guys have convinced the restaurant to stay open a little later.”

“Okay,” Derek said absently, staring down at his phone. “I ate at the ballpark.”

Danny laughed. “Oh, I wasn’t asking you to come with. I believe you have your own coming to do.”

Danny looked way too proud of himself, and Derek made a face. “That was awful. Never say that again.”

“And be careful with that arm, it’s probably pretty sore. Maybe you should learn how to jerk off with your left hand.”

Derek threw a pillow at him, but Danny dodged it and paused with his hand on the door. “I’ll be sure to text before I come back,” he said, grinning, and Derek rolled his eyes.

“Just get the fuck out of here.”

Danny finally left, the door falling shut with a _click_ , and Derek flipped the deadbolt before flopping back onto his bed. He squirmed up until he was mostly braced against the pillows, then unbuttoned his pants. He didn’t bother getting naked, even, just shoved his pants and boxers below his ass and gently grasped his dick with his right hand. His arm _was_ pretty sore, actually, but he was guessing that this wouldn’t take long. He was already mostly hard, even, just from the anticipation.

He took a deep breath and opened the app. Stiles had sent several pictures and several videos, all of him in various stages of jerking off, and Derek stared at each one greedily for the ten seconds until it disappeared. The last one had audio, and Derek got to hear Stiles’ familiar litany of grunts and groans as he came all over his hand. He bit his lip with a grunt and closed his eyes, easily replaying the images again and again in his head.

Derek realized at the last second that he should probably send something in return, so he forced his hand off his dick, staving off the orgasm, and fumbled for his phone. He got the app open again and aimed the phone awkwardly with his left hand, grabbing his dick with his right. He got himself right up to the edge again and then started recording a video, capturing the quick motion of his hand and the moment he spilled all over his fingers and his stomach.

He enjoyed the afterglow for a few seconds, until he started to feel sticky, then went to wash up and get ready for bed. It was a pleasant, bone-deep exhaustion as he crawled under the covers again, and Derek yawned as he stretched. He set his phone on the other pillow and closed his eyes, already imagining how Stiles would react and looking forward to what he would send in response.

* * *

8:03 AM **Stiles:** I was almost late to my meeting this morning because I had to laze around in bed and jerk off. Twice.  
  
**Stiles:** I'm blaming you.

* * *

“ _You_ ,” Derek hissed, shoving Stiles back through the door as soon as he opened it. “You are a _menace_ with those fucking pictures.”

Stiles grinned. “Well, those aren’t _fucking_ pictures, exactly, but I’m sure that could be arr—”

Derek cut him off with his mouth, and Stiles returned the kiss eagerly, clutching at the lapels of Derek’s jacket for a second before sliding his hands underneath. He’d been gone for 10 days, the longest they’d been apart since they started dating, and even though the Snapchat discovery was a pleasant development, Derek really just wanted Stiles underneath him in a bed.

He said as much, and Stiles groaned, stumbling back toward his bedroom while he stayed attached to Derek’s mouth. “Fuck, I missed you,” he breathed, and Derek grinned as he steered them around the corner.

“Me too,” he said, shoving Stiles down onto the bed. He followed, bracing one knee next to Stiles’ hip and pressing down when he tried to arch up.

“You look really, _really_ good in this suit,” Stiles murmured, mouthing up his jawline and scraping teeth over his earlobe. “I almost don’t want to take it off.”

“Vetoing that plan, sorry,” Derek said, trying to strip off his jacket and cursing when it got stuck on his wrists.

Finally, after what felt like half a dozen detours, they were both down to their boxers, and Stiles was in his lap, grinding down furiously.

“Wait,” Derek gasped, and Stiles stilled immediately, splaying his hands over Derek’s chest.

“What,” he said, flatteringly breathless, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just…thought maybe we could try something else?”

“Oh, yeah?” he said, his eyes brightening as he sat up further. “Something like what?”

Derek gulped. He hadn’t thought this through. “Um…”

“Sorry,” Stiles said, leaning back down to kiss him. “That was probably too open-ended. Though, believe me, the list of things I wanna do in a bed with you is unbelievably long. Actually, now that I say it, why keep ourselves constrained to just a bed? There’s always the shower and the kitchen and—”

Derek smashed their mouths together to cut Stiles off, which was quickly becoming his favorite strategy. He locked his arm around the small of Stiles’ back and flipped them, bracing one knee in between Stiles’ thighs.

“Oh, god,” he said, gasping as he rocked up into Derek’s grip. “Got distracted. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Derek murmured.

Stiles slid his hand underneath the waistband of Derek’s briefs and squeezed his ass before scraping his nails lightly across the skin. “Can I jerk you off?” he asked, complete with a playful eyebrow waggle—because of course.

Derek clenched his eyes shut and pressed up against Stiles’ hand. “Ye—yeah. Please.”

“Fuck yeah. Then get naked, Mr. Hale,” he said, then twisted to rummage through his nightstand. Derek blew out a breath and obeyed, sitting back on his heels to shuck his briefs down. He squirmed out of them, hopefully not too awkwardly, and took his place again on top of Stiles.

Stiles grinned up at him, and suddenly there was a slick fist wrapped around Derek’s dick. He hissed, and Stiles’ face twisted into a grimace. “Oh, shit, sorry. It’s probably cold, isn’t it?”

“It’s fine,” he rasped. He’d never jacked off with lube before, and the easy, easy slide of Stiles’ hand was making his head spin.

“Kiss me,” Stiles demanded, and Derek obeyed immediately, ducking down. It was sloppy but enthusiastic and perfect, and Derek broke away only when he had to breathe.

Derek braced his forehead on Stiles’ shoulder as he looked down to watch the head of his own dick pop in and out of Stiles’ fist. “I’m gonna come,” he admitted, and Stiles _groaned_ , as if he said some kind of magic word. He sped up his hand, which Derek wasn’t at all prepared for, and slid down the bed a little so he could scrape his teeth gently over Derek’s nipple.

That was the last straw, and Derek cried out a little as he spilled all over Stiles’ chest, his arms quivering as they held his weight.

“Oh, god,” Stiles gasped. He squirmed back up the bed, then wrapped his leg around Derek’s thigh and thrust up against his stomach, his eyes falling closed. “Jesus, you are so fucking hot, I’m so close. Just stay right there.”

“Wait,” Derek gasped, still dealing with aftershocks and sensory overload. He gripped Stiles’ hip to still him and ignored the plaintive little noise that elicited. “Can I, uh, return the favor?”

Stiles gaped up at him, his mouth dropped open. “ _Yes_ , fuck yes, hang on,” he said, pushing at Derek’s chest to give himself more space.

Derek’s arms were about to give out anyway, so he dropped to his side and tugged Stiles close as soon as he’d taken care of his boxers. He’d never actually seen Stiles’ dick before while it was hard—in person, at least—and he took a second just to look. He didn’t really have a lot to compare it to, but he was interested. To say the least.

“I, uh, haven’t done this before, obviously,” he said, and it somehow didn’t feel mean when Stiles laughed at him.

“Yeah, you have, hundreds of times. It’s just attached to someone else,” he said, grinning, and Derek rolled his eyes. “This is the sexy part,” he continued, squirting a healthy dollop of lube into Derek’s hand. Derek snorted and immediately wrapped his fist around Stiles’ dick.

His sharp inhale was gratifying, at least, and Derek stilled, just squeezing a little. “So I just—”

“Just do whatever you want,” Stiles said, his hips shifting restlessly on the bed. “Unless you try to yank it off or something, I promise I’ll like it.”

“Damn, that was gonna be my first move.”

Stiles laughed, but it broke off into a moan as Derek squeezed the base and then stroked upward. “Dude, you can’t, like, make me come _and_ make me laugh. That’s not fair.”

“Sorry,” Derek said absently. He paid close attention to Stiles’ reactions, noting what made him squirm and what made him thrust up into Derek’s grip. He seemed to like it a little faster than Derek did, so he tried that.

“Shit, Der,” he said, his nails digging little pinpricks into Derek’s shoulder. “Oh god, please don’t stop, I’m—almost there.”

Stopping was the very last thing on Derek’s mind, but he didn’t speed up, either, much to Stiles’ chagrin, if the pissed-off noises were anything to go by. Derek slung one of his legs over Stiles’ to hold him in place, and Stiles slumped forward, his open mouth pressing against Derek’s shoulder as he came. Derek managed to catch it all in his hand to avoid messing up the sheets, and he smeared it onto Stiles’ stomach with a little pat.

Stiles groaned. “We’re gross,” he stated after a minute, and Derek murmured his agreement.

“Yeah, but I think I’m too tired to shower.”

“Uh-uh,” Stiles said, rolling off the bed to stand on shaky legs. “C’mon, we’ll feel much better.”

“Turn on the water,” Derek mumbled. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

He laid there for another 90 seconds, until Stiles started yelling at him obnoxiously from the bathroom.

The hot water did feel good, and Derek sighed as the pressure hammered his shoulders.

“So how was your trip?” Stiles asked, reaching around him for the shampoo.

“Good,” he said automatically, then paused to think about it. “Oh god, wait, I didn’t tell you. Danny’s gay.”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles said, yawning as he scrubbed shampoo through his hair. “I know.”

Derek blinked. “You know?” he asked, aghast. “What, when did you guys talk about that?”

“We didn’t. I just,” Stiles said, shrugging, “you know, guessed.”

“How the hell did you _guess_?”

Stiles gave him a dry look. “Oh, have they not taught you the secret handshake yet? It should’ve been part of the welcome package you got when you decided that you liked dudes.” Derek huffed, flicking soap at him, and Stiles smirked. “I don’t know! I just…got the _vibe_ or whatever.”

“And what exactly is the _vibe_?”

“Just the vibe I got when he looked at me.”

Derek opened his mouth, then closed it again. “He _what_? He looked at you? When was this?”

Stiles rolled his eyes and pushed past Derek, switching positions so he could rinse his hair. “Oh my god, you caveman, relax. It was the first time we met. He just, you know, looked at me like other guys look at pretty girls.”

“Did you just compare yourself to a pretty girl?”

“I would be a _beautiful_ girl,” Stiles huffed, and Derek laughed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Stiles shrugged. “I didn’t want to out the guy. And I could’ve been wrong.”

“That’s fair,” he admitted, accepting the bar of soap that Stiles handed him.

“How’d you find out? Did he tell you?”

Derek winced. “Not exactly. I walked in on him with a guy.”

“Oh, dear,” Stiles said, with a grimace of his own. “Did you at least see anything good?”

Derek gave him a look. “They were just kissing. But I’m starting to get the impression that you have a little crush on Danny.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Danny is very attractive,” he admitted. “But one baseball player is enough for me, thanks. You’re way cuter, anyway.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly, but Stiles grinned. “I told him about us. I probably should have asked you.”

Stiles waved a hand. “Dude. Everyone could know, for all I care. Tell whoever you want.”

“Everyone _will_ know,” Derek said seriously, pausing his scrubbing to kiss the part of Stiles’ skin that was closest, his shoulder. Stiles didn’t say anything, he just smiled and pressed a kiss to Derek’s tattoo. “There’s something else I want to ask you, actually.”

“Mhmm?” Stiles said, ducking under the spray again.

“So the All-Star Game is coming up in a few weeks,” he said, and Stiles’ face lit up.

“And it’s in New York, right? You’re going, obviously.” He wrapped his arms around Derek and grinned.

“I won’t know for a couple more weeks. But maybe.”

“Definitely,” Stiles interjected, and Derek huffed.

“ _Anyway_. Would you like to come to New York? We’re playing the Mets the weekend before, and then I’ll either be staying for the All-Star Game, or I thought we could stay for the break and take a little vacation. You can meet my mom and Laura, and you have friends there, too, right?”

Stiles’ face broke into a grin, and he tightened his grip. “That sounds fantastic.”


	7. July

7:15 PM **Laura:** I’m pretty sure Mom likes Stiles more than she likes me.  
  
**Laura:** Definitely more than she likes you.

Derek grimaced. He’d done a pretty good job over the past three hours ignoring the fact that Stiles was somewhere in the stands, sitting with his mother and sister, but he didn’t have that luxury anymore. He was supposed to meet them for dinner in 15 minutes, and he was pretty afraid of what he was walking into.

The locker room was more boisterous than usual, and not just because the Dodgers had just won their series against the Mets. Most of the team was scattering for as much vacation as they could fit into the next four days, their only multi-day break of the season, while Derek and Jackson were staying in New York for the All-Star Game.

“Bye, hot shot,” Boyd said solemnly, patting him on the shoulder. Derek rolled his eyes as he finished buttoning his shirt.

“Yeah, yeah. Enjoy the Bahamas.”

“Oh, we plan to,” Boyd said, his face splitting into a grin. “But seriously, man, good luck. Have fun.”

Derek would like to say that he didn’t care about the All-Star Game, but…it was a nice ego boost. The position players got voted in by the fans, which ended up being mostly a popularity contest, but since the team managers and other players selected the pitchers, it was definitely an honor. And it was stipulated in his contract that Derek got a $50K bonus if he made the All-Star team, which wasn’t anything to sneeze at, either.

“Lookin’ sharp, Hale,” Danny said, sneaking up on him from behind and ruffling his hair. Derek frowned at him and tried to smooth it back down. “Hot date?”

Derek took a quick look around, but no one was paying attention to them. “Stiles is here,” he said quietly. “Met my family.”

“Whoa, big step. How’d it go?”

Derek sighed. “I have no idea, they went to the game together.”

“Wow,” he said, laughing. “Good luck with that.”

“What about you, doing anything fun for the break?”

Danny shrugged. “Just back to LA. Gonna not think about baseball for the next four days.”

“I’m a little bit jealous,” Derek admitted.

“Yeah, well, you’ll probably be having more sex than me, so don’t get too bent out of shape about it.”

Derek rolled his eyes and made sure everything was in his bag before zipping it shut and leaving it in the locker. The clubhouse attendant would make sure that it ended up back at the hotel. “And that’s my cue to leave, I think,” he said with a smirk, clapping Danny on the shoulder. “See you Friday, Danny.”

Derek said goodbye to a few more people and then snuck out the side exit. Practically as soon as he stepped outside the door, he found himself with an armful of his mother. He returned the hug, squeezing her tight and pressing a kiss to her temple when he heard her sniff. She pulled back after a minute but kept her hands on his biceps.

“My baby boy,” she said warmly, patting his cheek. Derek sighed and tried to look put-upon, but he knew he was smiling.

“Hi, mom.”

“Missed you, sweetie.”

“I missed you, too,” he said honestly, then hugged her again. He hadn’t seen her since Christmas, which was way too long.

She finally stepped aside, and suddenly Stiles was standing there in his skinny jeans and Dodgers hat, looking delectable enough that Derek swore his mouth went dry. “Hi, there,” he said.

Stiles grinned at him, that little smirk with one corner quirked up, and Derek wanted nothing more than to go over there and kiss him senseless. He stuffed his hands in his pockets instead and tried to smile back. “Hey.”

_Oh my god_ , Derek saw Laura mouth from behind Stiles, rolling her eyes, and Derek very carefully gave her the finger where his mom couldn’t see.

“Hi, dork,” Laura said, smiling warmly as she stepped up to give him a hug. “You look awful, like usual.”

“Right back atcha, nerd,” he said, and he managed to tickle the sensitive spot under her ribs before she pulled back with a squeal.

“We should probably get to dinner,” she said, hooking her arm through Derek’s. “People are starting to recognize you.”

Derek took a quick look around, taking in the curious glances, and tugged the brim of his hat down further. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Laura hailed a cab, giving the name of some restaurant Derek hadn’t heard of, and they all piled in. Stiles immediately twisted around in the front seat and winked at him. “I know all the embarrassing stories about you now,” he said, grinning smugly, and Derek frowned.

“Oh god, not the one about the—”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Laura said, with a smirk that almost rivaled Stiles’. “We covered the tutu one first, obviously.”

Stiles dissolved into laughter along with Laura, and even his mom couldn’t keep a straight face. “Traitor,” he hissed, and she patted him on the knee.

“Sorry, dear.”

Derek—more specifically, Derek’s various shortcomings and more embarrassing traits—was the subject of conversation for the rest of the cab ride, but he tried to ignore the teasing and focus instead on how well Stiles seemed to fit into his little family.

His mom and Stiles headed into the restaurant first, and Laura caught Derek’s arm. “She loves him,” she whispered, and Derek swallowed. “As do I, obviously. Nice catch, Der.”

Sometimes, Derek really did love his sister. “Thanks.”

“Not that I’m going to hold back from embarrassing the shit out of you, obviously.”

Derek rolled his eyes with a huff and followed her into the restaurant.

He managed to get through the rest of dinner with a limited amount of added angst. He was the slightest bit tipsy, though, since Laura kept pressing a wine glass into his hand every time his mom launched into another childhood story.

By the time he and Stiles got back to Derek’s hotel and got their bags from the front desk, Derek could practically _see_ the tension crackling between them, their elbows almost brushing as they waited for the elevator. Finally, it dinged and opened, blissfully empty. He somehow managed not to run inside, but he swayed toward Stiles as soon as the door closed behind them. “Hey.”

Stiles grinned but held him back with a hand on his chest, putting a couple feet of space in between them. “Hey,” he whispered. “You never know about the cameras.”

Derek groaned and let his head hang as he stepped back and leaned against the railing. “You’re infuriatingly rational.”

Stiles laughed delightedly. “You know, I don’t get that one a lot.”

The elevator ride was interminable, the walk down the corridor even more so. _Finally_ , Derek’s key card glowed green in the slot, and he shoved Stiles into the hotel room in front of him.

Laughing, Stiles stumbled against the wall from the momentum and dragged Derek up against him. Derek kissed him greedily, sliding his hands into Stiles’ hair and thumbing across the sharp cut of his cheekbones. “God, I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Stiles murmured. He yanked the tails of Derek’s shirt out of his pants and immediately slid his hands underneath, spreading the fingers of one hand over his stomach while the other hooked onto his waistband. They kissed for long minutes, until Stiles was panting and squirming against the wall, his lips bitten-red and swollen. “Sorry,” he said, putting a little space in between them and running his fingers through his hair. “Got a little carried away.”

“Nuh-uh, come back here,” Derek said, pushing Stiles back up against the wall. He laughed but wrapped his arms back around Derek’s shoulders.

“Thank fuck.”

“God, you’re hot.”

“Uh, look at _you_ ,” Stiles said, sliding his hands down Derek’s back to squeeze his ass. “I wanted to tackle you in that restaurant.”

“Even with—”

“Yep, even with your mom and sister there,” Stiles said, into the kiss. “They like me, I’m pretty sure I could’ve gotten away with it.”

“Could we stop talking about them? And all the embarrassing things you know about me now?”

“Oh, it just made me like you more, don’t worry.” Derek groaned, but Stiles was grinning as he started unbuttoning Derek’s shirt from the bottom. “In fact, I’m going to show you _just_ how much I like you.”

He spread open Derek’s shirt but didn’t push it over his shoulders, just slid one hand over his stomach and then dropped to his knees with a grin.

Derek swallowed. “That’s—that’s a terrible line,” he stammered, but it was hard when his mouth was suddenly so fucking _dry_.

Stiles unbuckled his belt and then fumbled with the zipper, cursing under his breath until he had Derek’s jeans pushed down past his hips. “Is this okay?” he asked softly, and Derek jerked his head up and down. Words were a little beyond his ability right now, but hopefully Stiles would accept enthusiastic nodding as consent.

Stiles turned them around and leaned in, licking a thick stripe up the side of Derek’s dick, and Derek’s breath promptly caught in his throat. “Oh, Jesus,” he said, spreading his legs a little and bracing back against the wall.

Stiles pulled back for a second— _just_ to smirk, Derek was sure of it—and then dove back down, quickly reducing Derek to a barely-coherent puddle of goo. It was slick and hot, and Stiles was just so _enthusiastic_ about it, making little pleased humming noises and bracing himself with one hand clutched around Derek’s thigh. His tongue did this little curly thing that Derek’s dick really appreciated, turned out, and way too soon, he had to give Stiles’ hair a warning tug. “Sti—Stiles, _fuck_.”

Stiles didn’t budge, and Derek doubled over a little as he came only a minute later, staying on his feet with the help of Stiles’ steadying hands on his hips. He stumbled toward the bed in search of a stable surface, kicking away his jeans on the way, and fell down on it face-first to finish catching his breath. He heard Stiles laugh behind him, along with the rustle of clothing, and soon Derek felt him clambering on top of him.

“Hello,” Stiles whispered, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck, and Derek could only groan in response. Stiles laughed again, and Derek rolled over onto his back and sat up. It wasn’t without effort, but he was rewarded by a completely-naked Stiles in his lap. Stiles kissed him—his mouth was burning hot, and Derek chased the different taste.

“You’re the best,” he murmured, and Stiles pushed his shirt over his shoulders, flinging it blindly off the bed. The movement made his hard dick bump up against Derek’s abs, and they both hissed.

“And you’re—you’re very flattering, thank you.”

Derek pushed Stiles over onto his back and moved down until he was on his stomach in between his legs. “Okay,” he said, his breath exhaling over Stiles’ dick as he looked at it.

“You don’t have to, seriously.”

“I know,” he said, tilting his head. “But it can’t be that difficult.”

Stiles laughed and fell back against the pillows. “I’m a little offended right now, not gonna lie. That was some of my best work.”

Derek snorted. “I’m not promising anything of that caliber. This is rookie ball here.”

“Baseball jokes!” Stiles crowed. “I’m already impressed.”

“Please don’t be. Low expectations is all I have to work with.”

“Honestly, you could just sit there and stare at my dick and I’d probably still come. I’ll like it, I promise.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Derek muttered, and Stiles laughed.

“And don’t swallow, okay? It’s a lot, and most people don’t like it. When I tug on your hair, just stop and use your hand.”

“Okay,” Derek said, a little relieved. He wasn’t planning on it, but it was good to know that it wouldn’t be a disappointment.

But before he could _think_ about it anymore, he just tipped his head down and licked. It took a little fumbling to figure out how to best angle his head and brace his weight and still have his right hand free, but after only a couple minutes he found a position that wasn’t too uncomfortable. He tried to mimic what Stiles did to him, using his hand and alternately licking and sucking at the head. He knew it was probably clumsy, and surely not the most technically-proficient blow job Stiles had ever gotten, but at the very least Derek knew not to use teeth.

And his haphazard approach seemed to be working, if Stiles’ groans and little cries were anything to go by. He was moving, too, running his hands almost frantically over Derek’s shoulders and sliding his knees up Derek’s ribs as he twitched. His hips were stock-still, though, as if he were glued to the bed, which Derek and his sensitive gag reflex really appreciated.

“Fuck, Derek,” he panted, “that’s—yeah, yeah, do your tongue like that again. Oh, holy shit, yes. Goddamn I’m close.”

Way sooner than Derek anticipated—before his jaw could even get sore, really—Stiles gave a particularly sharp tug on his hair, enough to make him wince. Derek pulled off obediently and wiped his mouth on his shoulder. Stiles was squirming on the bed, a splotchy flush reaching deep down on his chest, and Derek just watched him for a moment, until Stiles kneed him in the hamstring.

“I really appreciate the adoring glances, I really, really do. But I swear, if there is not a goddamn hand on my dick—”

His cut-off yell was gratifying, as was the frankly obscene way he arched up into the grip of Derek’s hand. Derek didn’t tease anymore, just launched into a relentless pace right off the bat, and Stiles’ groan as he spilled all over his own stomach and Derek’s fingers sounded more relieved than anything.

“Holy shit,” he gasped, his hand blindly grasping for Derek’s free one. “I’d been half-hard for _hours_ , I swear.”

Derek dropped down next to him, suddenly exhausted. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

Stiles twisted a little, groaning as he did so, and slung one leg over Derek’s. “Thank you. That was amazing.”

“Thank _you_.”

“Look at us, we’re so polite.”

“Would you like me to be _not_ so polite?” Derek asked as he pulled Stiles further on top of him, and he laughed, burying the noise in Derek’s neck.

“Give me 15 minutes, then yes.”

* * *

“I don’t have a lot of experience with babies,” Derek whispered to Stiles, as they trudged up the stairs to Scott and Allison’s third-floor apartment.

He thought he was quiet enough for Lydia not to overhear, but she twisted around and rolled her eyes at him. “As long as you don’t drop her, you’ll be fine.”

Derek grimaced—he hadn’t even _worried_ about that yet—but Stiles squeezed his shoulder. “Stop worrying. And Lydia, be nice.”

“No promises,” she sing-songed, and he and Stiles shared a commiserating eye roll.

“Remind me again why you’re _here_ ,” Stiles said. Lydia glared and flipped her hair over his shoulder.

“I have meetings. Plus, I get to see our friends, and Derek promised that he would introduce me to guys in tight pants.”

“Did I say that?” he said, and Lydia just blinked at him. “Okay, fine.”

“Congrats, you’re officially whipped,” Stiles said in a stage whisper. “Just like me.”

Lydia studiously ignored them and rapped on the door marked 3D. A pretty dark-haired girl flung open the door, and the two of them embraced immediately. Derek got swept up in a series of introductions and half-hugs, and suddenly there was a baby thrust into his arms. She was a truly adorable kid, with a shock of downy dark hair and big brown eyes, and it certainly didn’t hurt that she was also wearing Dodgers onesie.

“Oh my gosh,” Derek said, laughing. “Look at that.”

“I sent it,” Stiles said proudly, bracing one hand on Derek’s shoulder as he leaned in to kiss Rachel’s head. “As an early birthday gift.”

“It’s her favorite outfit,” Scott said loyally, and Stiles snorted as he took Rachel from Derek.

“Who’s your favorite godparent?” he cooed, but Lydia swept her right out of his arms.

“It’s me, right, sweetie? I send you all the best clothes.”

“I sent her what she’s wearing right now!”

Allison rolled her eyes as the two of them fought over their goddaughter and held her hand out to Derek with a dimply smile. “Hey there, I’m Allison. Great to meet you.”

“Derek,” he said, pleasantly surprised at her strong grip. “Likewise.”

Derek started to feel a little bit like a fifth wheel, as the four of them chattered excitedly about people and places that he didn’t know, but he was happy enough to bend over and hold Rachel’s hands while she tottered around the small apartment.

Scott came up behind him while they were in the kitchen and swooped Rachel off the ground. “Hurts, huh?” he asked, and Derek nodded, straightening up gratefully and rubbing his back.

They stood in semi-awkward silence for a few minutes, and Derek idly wondered if he was in for another unpleasant experience, a la Lydia. “Is this the part where you threaten me?” he asked finally, and Scott snorted.

“Oh god, no. Stiles is happier than I’ve ever seen him. Plus, do I really seem like the threatening type? Especially, compared to, you know,” Scott said, gesturing at Derek and making him grimace. “ _And_ , you got us tickets to the All-Star Game.”

“Easily bribed,” Derek said, nodding. “Good to know.”

Scott clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a solemn nod. “Exactly.”

Derek’s phone buzzed in his pocket after less than an hour, and he grimaced without having to check it. “That’s my cue to leave, unfortunately.”

His schedule was packed full of media obligations today—the downside to the All-Star Game, definitely—and while he’d managed to beg off a little break for “lunch,” he shouldn’t be late getting back.

“I’ll walk you out,” Stiles said, holding up his hand so Derek could haul him up off the couch.

He said his goodbyes to everyone, and pressed a kiss to the top of Rachel’s head. Stiles hadn’t let go of his hand and led him toward the front door.

“Thanks for taking the time to do this,” he said lowly, and Derek smiled, bumping their noses together.

“Course.”

“I’ll see you tonight?”

Derek nodded. The Home Run Derby was tonight, as part of the All-Star Game festivities, and Jackson had rented out some restaurant and was throwing a party afterward. “Yeah, I’ll text you, we’ll find somewhere to meet.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, kissing him, and Derek leaned into the easy familiarity of it.

* * *

“So much for our master plan to not let them meet,” Stiles muttered, and Derek bit back a smile. Lydia and Laura were about half a dozen strides in front of them, chattering excitedly with their arms linked.

“It probably won’t end in anything good.”

“Oh, wow,” Stiles said, once they had gone inside. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but kudos to Jackson. This is pretty sweet.”

Derek had to agree. It was some kind of lounge, dark with lots of leather, filled with banquet seating and low tables. There was a small dance floor, which was already in use, and a long bar at the back of the room.

Lydia and Laura had both already disappeared, and Derek winced. He didn’t like parties, and he _really_ wasn’t going to like them, he guessed, when he wasn’t exactly supposed to be with the person he was with.

“Drink?” Stiles said in his ear, and Derek nodded gratefully.

“Yes. Thanks.”

They stood at a tall table in the corner, sipping their beers, and Derek had to hold back snorts of laughter as Stiles offered commentary on everyone who walked by.

Eventually, Lydia appeared out of thin air and demanded that Stiles dance with her, tugging him off by the hand. Derek pushed off the wall with a sigh and drained the rest of his beer before picking up another one. There were a lot of people there that he knew, and he should probably talk to at least some of them.

He circled the room, making small talk, and just as he was reaching the limit of his social energy, he quite literally ran into Jackson. “Hey. Nice party.”

“Obviously,” he said, smirking, and Derek rolled his eyes. He really could be a douche.

“Well, thanks for inviting us,” he said, eager to get away from this conversation already. “I’ll just—”

“Holy shit,” Jackson hissed, interrupting Derek and looking over his shoulder.

“What? Whoa, wait, what the hell are you doing?” he said, lifting his hands as Jackson ducked down, clearly trying to hide from someone behind Derek.

“Who is that?”

“Who is _who_?” he asked. He tried to turn around, but Jackson grabbed his elbow and held him in place.

“Jesus Christ, don’t _look_.”

“Jackson,” Derek said, already irritated by the situation. “What the fuck is going on?”

Jackson took a deep breath and deliberately lowered his voice. “That red-headed girl in the corner, talking to your sister. Do you know who she is?”

“Yeah, that’s Lydia,” he said, confused.

“Lydia,” he breathed. Jackson’s eyes were wide, softer than Derek had ever seen them, and he grimaced.

“Holy shit, do you _like her_?”

“I’ve never met her,” he said absently, peeking around Derek’s arm. “But I’m pretty sure we’re soulmates.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Seriously? I am going to tell _everyone_ about this, you have no idea.”

“Who is she,” he asked, ignoring Derek, “and why is she here? Can you introduce me?”

Derek tried to hold back a snort—and failed. “She’s Stiles’ agent. And his best friend.”

“ _Noooo_ ,” he hissed, his face twisting into a grimace. “Fuck. Stiles hates me.”

“He doesn’t _hate_ you,” Derek said, unconvincingly, and Jackson glared at him.

“Yeah, right.”

“Okay, so what do you want me to do here?”

Derek was completely unaccustomed to this situation. Danny tended to be the designated wingman when guys wanted to get laid because…because of reasons that suddenly made a lot of sense to Derek.

“Just—just introduce me to her. Forget about Stiles.”

Derek sighed. “Fine. But that’s it. You’re on your own after that.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he said, running a hand through his hair. Derek sighed again and started walking in that direction, not bothering to check if Jackson was following him.

“Lydia,” Derek said pleasantly. She rested her hand on his elbow and tilted her cheek upward for a kiss. Derek obeyed because he wasn’t an idiot. “This is my teammate Jackson. Jackson, Lydia.”

“Hello,” she said primly, casting a dismissive eye over Jackson. He practically preened under the attention, and Derek looked skyward.

“Okay,” he said, clapping Jackson on the shoulder. “See you kids later.”

Derek said hello to a few more people before making his way back over to Stiles.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles hissed, smacking him in the shoulder. “Why is Jackson talking to Lydia? What the hell did you do?”

Derek blinked. “He says she’s his soulmate,” he said, as dryly as possible, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“She is _twirling her hair_ , Derek. That means this shit is serious,” he said, and Derek looked over at them. Jackson’s smile was slightly less douchey than his fake one, and he had one hand braced on the wall above her shoulder while she looked up at him. “God. As much as it pains me to say it, they’re probably perfect for each other. And I’ll always blame you.”

“Okay,” he said absently, still taking them in. They were so clearly interested in each other—and showing it plainly—and Derek let his gaze drift around the room. Most of the other players there had dates, and when he’d been making the rounds, he’d been introduced to a lot of wives and girlfriends. It was a gnawing pit in the bottom of his stomach that he couldn’t do the same with Stiles, that he couldn’t hug or kiss him right now, that he couldn’t introduce him to everyone as his boyfriend.

“Hey,” Stiles whispered, touching his elbow for a split-second. “What’s wrong? You’re glaring again.”

Derek hesitated. He had no idea if he should bring it up or not, how conflicted he was feeling. He didn’t want Stiles to think that he never thought about it—far from the case—but he didn’t necessarily want to remind him of it all the time, either.

“Nothing,” he said finally, shooting Stiles a tight smile. “I’m fine.”

* * *

The worst part of the All-Star Game was _definitely_ the media obligations. The game was over, and even though Derek had only thrown one inning, just like all the other pitchers, he had to answer about a million questions and talk to reporters from what seemed like hundreds of outlets.

Stiles, along with everyone else, was long gone by the time he was finally done. The first second Derek was free, he grabbed his bag and hailed a cab as fast as he could, headed for Stiles’ midtown hotel.

It was hopefully late enough that no one would be around to recognize him, but he hurried through the lobby anyway, his hat brim pulled low, and took a thankfully-empty elevator up to the 16th floor. It was _late_ , and he felt bad knocking lightly on Stiles’ door, knowing he was probably asleep.

Stiles opened it a minute later, blinking blearily, wearing plaid pajama pants and an old, worn Dodgers t-shirt that Derek was pretty sure he recognized from his own closet.

“Sorry for waking you up,” Derek said, and Stiles shook his head, tugging him by the hand into the room.

“S’fine. I was just dozing.” The TV was turned to ESPN, showing highlights of the game, and Stiles flipped it off before wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck. “My All-Star,” he murmured, and Derek laughed.

“That’s corny, even for you.”

“Don’t care,” he said, kissing at the join of Derek’s neck and shoulder. “D’you have fun?”

Derek paused, only slightly distracted by Stiles’ warm mouth. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. And I didn’t embarrass myself on national TV, so that was good.”

Stiles snorted. “As if that was a concern. You did great.”

“What about you, did you have a good time?”

“Oh, yeah, those seats were awesome. Your mom cried a little when you got introduced, and she went on this little spiel about how you used to be her baby boy.”

“Oh, god,” Derek said, groaning, and Stiles laughed.

“But yeah, it was great. And now we have two days of vacation,” he said, biting down a little on Derek’s neck. “Are you excited?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he said gratefully. “Can we just stay in bed?”

Stiles laughed and speaking of, pushed Derek back toward the king bed in the middle of the room. “For _resting_ purposes only, right?” he said, quirking an eyebrow, and Derek smirked. As soon as he felt the back of his legs hit something, he sat down and tugged Stiles down onto his lap.

“Sure. That, too,” he said. He held on to Stiles tighter and leaned in to scrape his beard across his neck, enjoying the way it made him shiver.

“That—that might be hard since we’re going to your mom’s tomorrow.”

“She’d understand,” Derek said, grabbing onto the hem of Stiles’ shirt and tugging it off his head. He rearranged their position so they were spooning, and he brought his hand up for Stiles to lick.

Stiles got a little too into it, practically fellating his fingers with little scrapes of his teeth, and Derek eventually had to pull his hand away with a groan. He shoved down Stiles’ pajama pants and just teased at his dick for a moment, trailing his fingers up and down until Stiles kicked him with a whine. He hid his smile in Stiles’ hair and tightened his grip.

It was soft and somewhat lazy, and Stiles’ squirms were providing just enough stimulation against Derek’s dick to keep him on the edge. Enough on the edge, in fact, that he had to awkwardly reach down between them to unbutton and unzip his pants. The release of pressure made him exhale, and Stiles pressed back a little harder. He mouthed at the back of Stiles’ neck, tracing his hairline with his tongue, and Stiles kept murmuring words that Derek couldn’t really hear.

Stiles came quietly for once, his mouth hanging open on a silent moan as he clutched at Derek’s thigh. He managed to grab his shirt, somehow, and avoided a wet spot.

Derek’s hand was still somewhat slick with spit and Stiles’ come, enough so that he just squirmed his hand into his pants. It didn’t take long, and soon he spilled with a low sigh all over Stiles’ ass.

Stiles laughed and tried to turn, but Derek’s hand on his hip kept him from rolling over. “Stay there,” he said, pushing him onto his stomach. “You’ll get it on the sheets.”

“The romance is alive,” Stiles declared as he pillowed his head on his crossed arms and closed his eyes. “Practically drowning in it, here.”

Derek snorted and stumbled off the bed to get a washcloth. He dampened it with warm water—now _that_ was romance, thank you very much, Stiles—and carefully cleaned him off.

Stiles reached his hand back and tangled it in Derek’s hair, tugging to pull him down. Derek fell forward, and barely managed to catch his weight on his hands. The angle for the kiss was awkward but it was still sweet, and Derek settled his weight against Stiles’ back with a contented little hum. They kissed for a minute, until Stiles squirmed and smacked him gently. “You still have your _shirt_ on,” he complained. “This is a shirt-free zone, please take care of that immediately.”

“If I take it off, will you let me sleep?” he said, his voice muffled through the fabric.

Stiles snorted. “You’re the one who came in here and woke me up for some very nice sex.”

“And you sound real broken-up about it, too,” Derek said dryly, and Stiles smirked into his pillow.

* * *

“Did you really have to get a convertible?” Stiles asked, raising his voice to be heard over the rush of the wind.

“You’re just jealous I’m not letting you drive it!” he yelled back, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Not everyone gets tan and pretty, you know. Some of us just _burn_.”

Oh. Derek hadn’t thought about that. “I can—”

Stiles waved his hand. “No, it’s fine. You said it’s not that far, right?”

“Yeah, it’s less than an hour from here.”

They were driving out to his mom’s house out in Mount Pleasant, and while they _could’ve_ taken a car, Derek felt like driving instead. It didn’t hurt that it was a beautiful day, sunny and clear and surprisingly not-humid—for mid-July, at least.

“You should take off your shirt,” Stiles said, waving his hand. “Try to even out that horrible farmer’s tan you’ve got going on.”

“Hey,” Derek complained, but when he looked over, Stiles was smirking, both feet propped up on the dash. “It’s not my fault I play an _outdoor_ sport. In a shirt with sleeves.”

“I would watch shirtless baseball,” Stiles murmured, his eyes slipping closed. “Good way to get more fans.”

Eventually, Derek pulled off the highway and wove his way through a residential neighborhood. He turned into a long, winding driveway, and Stiles’ eyes practically popped out of his head. “Um, you didn’t mention that you were _rich_ ,” he hissed.

“My mom is rich,” Derek corrected. “ _Now_. I didn’t grow up here.”

“Oh my god, did she win the lottery or something?” he asked, craning his neck to take in the long spread of gardens on the far side of the house, and Derek rolled his eyes as he came to a stop in front of the garage.

“No, she’s just a very good lawyer.”

His mom was outside before he even switched the ignition off, and she immediately swept Stiles into a big hug. Derek snorted and busied himself with getting their bags out of the trunk before she eventually let go of Stiles and hugged Derek.

“Hi, mom, I’m here, too.”

“Oh, shut up, you,” she said, kissing his cheek. “You’ve never brought anyone home before, I’m allowed to be excited.”

Laura greeted them with only slightly less enthusiasm, and his mom launched into a quick tour of the first floor for Stiles. Derek started for the stairs, to take their bags to the usual room he slept in, but Laura caught his arm. “Mom got the guest house ready for you guys.”

“Oh,” Derek said, a little surprised. He’d never stayed out there before.

Laura smirked at him. “We just don’t wanna have to listen to you guys have sex.”

“Shut up,” he snapped, sneaking a look at Stiles. His face was flushed, but he continued doggedly in his conversation with Derek’s mom, pretending that he hadn’t heard Laura.

“You two go get settled, okay?” his mom said. “Come back in a little while and we’ll have some lunch. You’re probably hungry after your trip.”

“It was less than 90 minutes,” Derek said, smiling at her when she rolled her eyes with a little huff. “But yes, lunch would be great.”

“So there’s a _guest house_?” Stiles said under his breath, as they traipsed through the house toward the back.

“It’s more of a pool house, really. It’s small.”

Stiles snorted. “And let me guess, we have different definitions of small.”

“I don’t know, do we?” Derek asked with a smug grin, and Stiles socked him in the shoulder.

“Wow,” he muttered, once Derek pushed open the back door to the yard. There was a small rectangular pool, which sat perpendicular to the house, with the guest house at the other end. It was small and neat, dark-colored brick and stone with white trim, with big sliding barn doors that were currently open. It was functionally a studio apartment, one big room with a little kitchenette area along one wall, a cozy sectional facing a fireplace and a TV, and a giant bed with fluffy white sheets. There were doors to a bathroom, cozy but still spacious with a big shower and two sinks, and a small closet, but that was it.

“Wow,” Stiles said again, flopping down onto the couch. “This is amazing.”

“It is nice. I’ve never stayed here.”

“I’m really tempted to test out that bed,” he said, tipping his head back to look at it longingly. “But then I’m afraid I’d never get out of it.”

“We could take a nap after lunch,” he said, and Stiles’ eyes lit up.

“I’m taking that as a promise.”

Once they were back in the main house for lunch, Derek took a ring box out of his pocket and handed it to his mom. “Saved this for you.”

“Your All-Star ring!” she exclaimed, looking at it closely. It was kind of gaudy and ugly, honestly, but he knew his mom would appreciate it for the sentimental value. “I’ll add it to the collection.”

She walked over to the built-in shelves in the living room, and Stiles trailed curiously after her. “So this is the Derek shrine?” he asked, gesturing with a smirk, and Laura laughed. Derek glared at him.

“It’s not a _shrine_ ,” he said, and Stiles raised his eyebrows at him.

“It looks pretty shrine-like to me.”

Derek snorted and stepped closer, knocking their hips together. Stiles seemed to be taking in every photo and souvenir, from a ticket to his first game at UCLA to the ball from his no-hitter that he’d sent to his mom. And right at Derek’s eye level was a framed photo of all of them after one of his high school games. He was pretty sure it was the last picture they’d taken as a family before the accident.

His mom must have followed his gaze because she leaned against his side a little. “Your dad would be so proud of you, you know. And Cora.”

Derek blinked back the tears that sprung to his eyes and nodded, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He was getting to the point where it was hard to conjure up a good image of them in his head, the details lost to time, so he stared at the image hard, trying to memorize the salt and pepper in his dad’s beard, the dimples in Cora’s cheeks. Stiles’ hand slipped into his, intertwining their fingers, and Derek squeezed back gratefully.

“Okay,” Laura said, wiping her own eyes. “Enough tears, let’s eat lunch.”

His mom followed her into the kitchen, but Stiles hung back and tugged at Derek’s hand to keep him in place. He tilted his head for a kiss, and Derek indulged him, pressing forward for only a second. “Thanks for inviting me,” he whispered.

“Thank you for being here,” Derek whispered back, and Stiles didn’t let go of his hand.

Lunch was easy, just sandwiches and other snacks that they ate while clustered around the kitchen island, and as soon as he was done, Derek hopped off his stool and stretched. “I’m on vacation. So I’m gonna go take a nap.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Stiles said, mumbling around his last mouthful of chips. “I’ll join you.”

Laura sent them an overwrought wink, but Derek ignored her.

Stiles rinsed everyone’s dishes—he was clearly trying to butter up Derek’s mom, and by the look in her eye, it was working—and then practically skipped out to the guest house, dragging Derek along.

He shut the doors with a definitive _click_ and wrapped his arms around Derek from behind. “So were you using _nap_ in the euphemistic or literal sense?”

Derek hummed, enjoying the weight of Stiles slumped against his back, and pretended to think about it. “Both. But I could be persuaded on the order.”

“Oh, yeah?” Stiles murmured, sliding his hands up under Derek’s shirt and across his stomach. “What do I have to do to convince you?”

“Nothing,” he admitted, turning in Stiles’ grip and rolling his eyes a little at the grin he saw on his face.

“You are so good for my ego, Hale,” he said as he tugged Derek’s shirt off. “I’m good for your ego, too, right? Do I tell you often enough how utterly _fucking_ hot you are? Because you really, _really_ are.”

“Uh-huh,” he said absently, a little preoccupied with trying to remove Stiles’ shirt with one hand and his shorts with the other.

Finally, they were naked, and Stiles shoved Derek back until they were sprawled out on the bed. Derek was pretty sure he’d never get tired of Stiles’ kisses, the way they went from soft and sweet to eager and bruising and back again, all in the dizzying span of just a few minutes. And Stiles was so pleasantly heavy on top of him, with what felt like miles of warm, soft skin pressed against him. Derek probably would have been content to just lie there and enjoy it, honestly, but then Stiles shifted, rubbing his thigh purposefully over Derek’s dick, and oh yeah, there was that. Stiles was hard, too, his dick jumping a little in Derek’s grip when he reached down.

“Can I try something?” Stiles asked. He licked his lips after he finished speaking, which was a little distracting, but Derek managed to nod.

“Yeah. What?”

Stiles leaned over, stretching for the little bottle of lube that had somehow already made its way into the drawer of the nightstand. He dropped it right on Derek’s stomach and rubbed over his nipple with his thumb, smirking when Derek hissed a little. “Can I finger you while I suck you off? Just one.”

“Sure,” he said agreeably. He’d never done that before, but honestly, he was pretty down for anything that Stiles wanted to do to him.

Stiles looked _delighted_ —talk about an ego boost—and he was practically vibrating as he moved down, spreading Derek’s legs around his broad shoulders. “Just tell me if you want me to stop, okay?” he asked, and Derek nodded.

The blow job was familiar, at least, and as good as ever, and Derek slowly relaxed as Stiles just kept rubbing at him with his thumb, right behind his balls. It got him into some sort of trance-like state, almost, but he still jerked in surprise when Stiles’ index finger slid slowly inside him.

It felt…weird, kinda, but not bad or uncomfortable, really, and Derek fought the urge to shift his hips against the foreign feeling.

“Relax,” Stiles murmured against the skin of his hip.

Derek tried to obey, sucking in a deep breath and focusing on the hot slide of Stiles’ tongue against the head of his dick. Stiles kept moving his finger, in and out and side to side, and the feeling slowly morphed from weird to less weird to pleasantish.

Suddenly he nudged against _something_ , and holy _shit_ , Derek had never experienced that sensation before. He gasped a little and jerked, and Stiles froze. “You okay?” he pulled off to ask. “You want me to stop?”

“No, do that again.”

Stiles laughed at him, Derek was pretty sure, muffling the sound into the cut of his groin, but he didn’t even care because Stiles obeyed, and it felt that fucking good. Each press, against what he was assuming was his prostate, was like…like the beginning of an orgasm, kinda, when the pressure started to build in his groin and the sparks flicked up his spine.

And it only got _better_ —or worse?—as Stiles kept going, and Derek felt like he was on the precipice of orgasm for what seemed to be hours, but was surely under five minutes. Derek was way louder than usual when he came, definitely, and he was pretty sure he let out some kind of embarrassing whimper thing. It felt coaxed out of him, different than usual, and he couldn’t do anything but lay there after, as useless as a wrung-out rag.

_Stiles_ , though, Stiles let out a literal whine and practically threw himself up Derek’s body with an energy that bordered on frantic, kissing Derek’s slack mouth. He was panting, his eyes as wild as his hair—had Derek been dragging his hands through it?—and his dick was scorching hot where it rested against Derek’s stomach.

Still more than a little dumbfounded by coming his brains out, Derek reached down automatically, but Stiles knocked his hand away with a quick shake of his head. “Uh-uh,” he said breathlessly. “Really close, just—”

Stiles braced one of his hands on Derek’s chest, the other stripping his dick furiously. His mouth hung open as he sucked in air, and his gaze was piercingly intense as he babbled. “God, you’re…so fucking hot when you come, I just can’t—could barely keep going, was practically…practically _humping_ the sheets, and I just—”

His orgasm looked _ripped_ out of him, making him arch as his face twisted into a grimace that was somehow still hot. Derek blinked, taking it all in, and he grunted as Stiles collapsed down onto him. He pressed an absent kiss to Derek’s shoulder, and his breath almost immediately evened out into his familiar sleeping rhythm.

Unbelievably overwhelmed by the previous 10 minutes, all Derek could do was bring his arms up around Stiles, arrange him into a slightly less organ-crushing position, and resign himself to the fact that they would most definitely be glued together in a fairly gross way whenever they woke up.

* * *

“I’m sad we have to leave in the morning,” Derek whispered the following night, and Stiles smiled. It was dark, but Derek could feel the curve of his lips against his neck.

“It’s been pretty great.”

The day had been, in all honestly, one of the best days in Derek’s recent memory. He’d gotten up a little early to make breakfast and bring it to Stiles in bed—the blow job he’d gotten for that little act had been _particularly_ inventive—and they spent the rest of the day with his mom and Laura, alternating between Netflix marathons on the couch and lazy swims in the pool.

“What do you think about going on a real vacation?” Derek asked. “After the season’s over.”

Stiles hummed and slid half on top of him. “I think that sounds awesome. Where?”

“Wherever you want.”

“Ooh, man,” he said with a little groan. “You can’t give me such freedom.”

Derek laughed. “I mean it. Europe, the Caribbean, wherever. You pick.”

“ _We_ pick,” he insisted, and Derek sighed, pretending to be put-upon.

“Fine. Your book’s due in October, right?” he asked, and Stiles nodded. “November, then.”

“It’s a date,” he promised, pressing a kiss to Derek’s shoulder.


	8. August

Derek paced across the floor of his hotel room, strangely restless. He was all dressed and ready to go to the ballpark, but since he still had a few minutes before he needed to leave, he took a chance and called Stiles.

“Hey, there.” Stiles answered after about three rings and maybe it was just the connection, but he sounded a little slurred.

Derek’s brow furrowed. “Stiles? You okay?”

“Oh, I’m great,” he said, letting out a _very_ familiar little groan, and Derek froze.

“Are—are you jerking off right now?”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “You have really good timing. Do you need to go, or—”

Derek grimaced and swung his gaze over to the alarm clock on the nightstand. There were generally two shuttles to the ballpark, and the first one left in 10 minutes. He always took the first bus, but as Stiles’ breath hitched in his ear…yeah, he could take the second one today. Definitely.

“Yeah. I mean, no,” Derek said, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m good. Keep—keep going.”

Stiles laughed in his ear, and Derek stumbled back toward the bed. They sent each other photos on Snapchat with decent regularity, but they’d never had phone sex before—Derek _ever_ , obviously—and he didn’t really know what to expect.

“Please tell me you’re alone right now.”

“Yeah,” Derek mumbled, struggling to get his pants down. If he concentrated, he could hear the slick slide of Stiles’ hand on his dick, and thanks to that, he was half-hard already. “No roommate this time.”

“You got a few minutes then? I can promise you it won’t take me much longer than that.”

“Gimme a minute to catch up,” he said, wrapping his hand around his rapidly-hardening dick, and Stiles laughed, breathless.

“Let’s see if we can come at the same time,” he said, and Derek snorted.

“Why?”

“Why not?” Stiles countered. “It’ll be fun, c’mon. If we can do it, I’ll…I’ll do something really good. Next time we’re together.”

“Specific,” Derek said, laughing.

“Okay, most of my blood is not exactly in my brain right now, don’t judge what I say.”

“This is phone sex, all I _can_ do is judge what you say.”

“So I’ll be getting a grade later?”

“Yeah, you have comment cards, right?” Stiles laughed, and Derek grinned, squeezing a little harder. “How close are you?”

Stiles hummed, and the noise twisted off into a gasp at the end. “A, uh, a seven. You?”

“Can’t say I’ve ever put it on a scale before. Maybe a four?”

Stiles made another little noise, and Derek tried to picture it, how he twisted his face into the pillow whenever he got close, his fingers flexing. “Guess I’ll have to step up my game,” he said, and Derek’s breath caught in his throat.

“That sounds ominous.”

“I was taking my time before you called. Thinking about you.”

Derek swallowed. “Thinking about what?”

“How fucking good you look sucking my dick,” Stiles said frankly, and Derek’s cheeks filled with heat, even though no one was there to see. “Like that time in the shower a couple weeks ago, remember?”

“Yeah,” he said, with a raspy chuckle. They’d both nearly ended up with brain damage, but it had been worth it. “That was a—a good one.”

“Also you fucking me. Was thinking about that, too.”

Derek’s hand sped up, seemingly of its own accord, and he automatically bit his lip to keep any sounds from escaping. Then he belatedly remembered that that was kind of the whole _point_ , and he stopped resisting. The noise was kind of pathetic, though. “Okay, maybe I’m now an eight.”

Stiles had a lot of different laughs, but Derek’s favorite was when it was breathless and tinged with arousal, when he seemingly couldn’t decide whether to laugh or groan. “Yeah, right there with you.”

“You—you haven’t mentioned that in a while.”

“Didn’t know how you felt about it,” Stiles said quietly.

“I’m, uh, definitely amenable to the idea,” he said, and Stiles snorted.

“Glad to hear it, believe me.”

“I’m also really close,” Derek admitted.

“Then stop,” Stiles commanded, and it took every ounce of Derek’s willpower to pry his fingers off his dick. He threw his head back against the pillow and groaned.

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously, you big drama queen. I’ve barely touched myself since you called, it would’ve, uh, would’ve been over too quickly,” he said, sounding distracted, almost. Derek took a deep breath, the phone hot against his cheek, and clenched his hand in the comforter.

“We get to see each other tomorrow, right?”

“Yep,” Stiles said breathlessly. “Wish I could go to the game, since you’re starting, but I can see you right after.”

“Good,” he said, his hand inching closer to his thigh. “What about now?”

“Now, you better get your hand back on your dick if we’re gonna do this because I’m about to come.”

No problem there, Derek thought, eagerly obeying.

They didn’t quite get it—Stiles’ breathy grunt as he came sent Derek over the edge about 20 seconds later—but he thought it was a valiant effort. He said as much, after they caught their breath, and Stiles laughed.

“Gives us something to improve on next time.”

Derek exhaled and winced as the come started to dry on his stomach. “I’ll put it on the comment card,” he said dryly, smirking when Stiles made an indignant noise.

* * *

Derek crouched down behind the pitcher’s mound and resisted the urge to scream. He settled for aggressively kicking at the dirt, under the guise of “rearranging” it, while the batter jogged to first base.

He stepped back to the top of the mound and took a deep breath when the next batter stepped into the box. _Forget about the last one, forget about the last one_ , he chanted. Having a short memory was the best quality in a pitcher, and he needed to _not_ think about the last batter while he faced this one.

Derek wound up and threw, but that very first pitch got smacked on a line straight into left field, and the runners on second and third base raced home. Derek backed up the play at home plate, as was his job, but both runs scored easily.

He stalked back to the mound, practically vibrating with frustration. “Fuck!” he barked, unable to keep it in. He whipped off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm down. Patty turned to look at the dugout, and Derek followed his gaze. Finstock emerged a second later, jogging toward the mound while he lifted one hand toward the bullpen in far left field.

_Shit_.

Derek blew out a frustrated breath. His day was done. Six runs in under five innings, by far the worst start of his professional career. And it was only because of the team’s confidence in him that he’d even been able to throw five innings—a less-established starter would have gotten pulled a lot sooner—and he’d basically pissed all over that confidence.

He held his glove over his face and took another deep breath. The TV cameras were on him, he knew, and he wasn’t really in the mood to moderate his expressions. Finstock held out his hand when he reached the mound, and Derek dropped the ball into it, biting back words he knew he shouldn’t say.

“You’ll get ‘em next time, Hale.”

He nodded shortly. Patty gave his ass a friendly smack with his glove, but Derek didn’t even register it as he strided off. He _hated_ being pulled from games, especially when it was because of performance and not just how many pitches he’d thrown.

At least the Dodger fans were quiet—a more hostile crowd would have been either booing him or rudely cheering the fact that he was leaving the game—and Derek kept his head down as he jogged back toward the dugout.

He threw his glove down onto the bench, a little more violently than necessary, and Isaac immediately came up behind him and grabbed his arm. “Hey. Calm down.”

Derek gritted his teeth in irritation, but he knew Isaac was just being rational. Way too many pitchers injured themselves in dumb ways by punching things after bad starts, and everyone knew to look out for it. Derek wasn’t helping his team much right now, but he’d be helping a lot less with a couple broken fingers.

“I’m fine,” he spit out, shoving out of Isaac’s grip. “Let me go.”

Isaac stepped back, both hands raised, and Derek made a mental note to apologize to him later. He stopped into the clubhouse, avoiding everyone, and let himself into the gym, exhaling gratefully when he saw that it was empty.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and winced, turning to face the other way. He literally couldn’t look at himself right now, after such a disappointing start. Sometimes he _really_ wished they had a punching bag, but the guys would probably get hurt, using it when they were as upset as Derek was.

He busied himself by lifting weights instead, taking breaks every 15 minutes or so to check the score of the game. The guy who came in to relieve him didn’t give up any more runs, but the Dodgers offense couldn’t scrape enough enough runs, and they lost 6-4. Not that it was the offense’s _job_ to bail him out—Derek let them down.

He put it off as long as he could, icing his arm and getting a massage, but there was no way Derek would be getting out of talking to the media that night. It was as awful as he anticipated, and he had to clench his jaw more than once to stop himself from saying something rude that wouldn’t do anything except get repeated on SportsCenter.

He was even _more_ tense afterward, and he sighed when he saw the three text notifications from Stiles on his phone.

8:15 PM **Stiles:** *sad face emoji*  
  
**Stiles:** Sorry, Der.  
  
**Stiles:** My place or yours tonight?  
  
**Derek:** Neither. Can't have any distractions right now.  
  
**Stiles:** Ok

Derek sighed. This was their first game back in LA after being gone for a week, and he and Stiles had planned to get together. He pushed down the guilty feeling, though, and turned off his phone, stuffing it into the bottom of his bag.

He hung around the ballpark longer than usual, working out some more and taking a long shower once most people had cleared out. He finally left, and the bag slung over his shoulder felt impossibly heavy as he trudged out to his car.

His apartment was cold and empty and dark, after a week of being away, and Derek putzed around, going through his mail and carefully watering his plants. He ate a depressing snack of cold cereal and a banana—keeping a stock of fresh groceries wasn’t the easiest, with how much be traveled—before brushing his teeth and climbing into bed. The whole experience reminded him way too much of his lonely existence last year, when his entire life revolved around only baseball, and he missed Stiles with a sudden, visceral pain in his gut. It was for the best, though, he reminded himself sternly. He clearly wasn’t capable of handling distractions.

It took him a long time to fall asleep. He and Stiles spent the night together more often than not, not taking into account Derek’s road trips, and he had apparently gotten very used to the sound of his quiet breathing and the feel of another warm body in bed. Plus, he couldn’t stop replaying the game in his head, over and over again, and he was pretty sure it was getting to him in a bad way.

Finally, at about two a.m., Derek finally gave into the urge to turn his phone back on. There weren’t any texts from Stiles, though, and he frowned. He waited, hoping that maybe it would take a few minutes for any texts to come through after the phone had been off, but nothing showed up. He sighed and carefully set the phone on the pillow next to him before closing his eyes.

* * *

They only played four games in LA, then late Thursday night they were back on the plane for the short trip to San Francisco. They had lost three out of four against Pittsburgh, with Derek’s bad start to lead them off, and the plane ride was appropriately subdued.

Most of the guys were stretched out, dozing, but Derek sat down next to Boyd.

“How do you have a relationship and not have it take over your life?” he asked quietly, once he finally worked up enough courage to do so.

Boyd’s eyes were half-closed, and he didn’t appear to have heard the question, but Derek knew better than to repeat himself.

“Don’t blame Stiles for your bad start,” he said finally, and Derek grimaced.

“I’m not,” he said. It sounded weak even to his own ears.

“Does he know that?”

Derek let his head fall back against the headrest with a thump. “I told him that night that I didn’t want him to come over because I didn’t want to be distracted. And we haven’t really talked since then.”

Boyd’s expression didn’t change, but Derek swore he could feel disapproval coming off of him anyway. “Hmm. That wasn’t the nicest.”

“I know,” he said, twirling his phone in his fingers even though it was switched off. “But what if it is too…too distracting?”

Boyd sighed. “Don’t blame yourself, either. You don’t have to be a monk to be a good baseball player. You are allowed to have some happiness in your personal life. Either you want to be with him or you don’t. Baseball has nothing to do with it.”

Derek nodded, only partially convinced. “Right.”

Boyd sighed again and lowered his voice. “Do you, like, sext him during games?”

“No!”

“Do you spend time with him when you should be working out or watching tape or something?”

Derek thought about it. “No, not really.”

Boyd shrugged. “Then you’re fine. It was one bad game, Derek. You’ll be fine, and it has nothing to do with Stiles. Stop overanalyzing it.”

_Easier said than done_ , he thought to himself, mulishly, but he knew better than to keep arguing with Boyd. He was rational to a fault, and he certainly didn’t ruminate over things like Derek did.

Which he’d been making a habit of over the past week, even more so than usual. He’d been watching tape obsessively in between bouts of working out, probably harder than he should have,and pointedly not talking to Stiles. Not that Stiles was all that eager to talk to him either, apparently, because they hadn’t spoken since Monday night. It was certainly the longest they’d gone without speaking since they met, and Derek was feeling the absence acutely. But each time he found his thoughts drifting toward Stiles, he replayed his bad start in his head and made himself watch more tape. An effective punishment, unfortunately.

He threw his customary midweek bullpen session yesterday, 35-40 pitches at near-game intensity, and it went about as well as his last start. That is, terrible. His grip still felt off, something wonky was going on with his release, and he just could _not_ get it together. He even snapped at Patty, who knew way more about pitching than Derek did and deserved respect instead of derision. He’d sheepishly apologized later that day, but Patty just rolled his eyes at him and said it was fine. He’d also muttered something under his breath about _prima donna pitchers_ , but Derek decided to ignore that part.

And now they had to play the Giants, the Dodgers’ biggest rival _and_ their biggest competition for a playoff spot. Over the past month, they’d maintained about a three-game lead over the Giants in their division—not a comfortable margin by any means, but each game was precious. That lead had fallen to one-and-a-half after the Dodgers’ poor showing against Pittsburgh, and they really couldn’t afford to lose any this weekend. No pressure or anything.

Derek took a deep breath.

He was pitching on Saturday, and the fact that it was a nationally-televised afternoon game wasn’t doing anything to help his nerves. Not that their typical viewing audience was _small_ , and the highlights certainly went worldwide, but still. Derek couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this nervous, and he wasn’t looking forward to millions of people watching him screw up.

* * *

Derek was stretched out on the bed, attempting to read a novel—though he had a hard time even finishing a paragraph without his mind wandering off to pitching, then Stiles, then pitching again—when someone knocked at his door.

He sighed and stared at the door, wrinkling his nose and trying to decide if he should open it or not. Security was pretty tight on their floors, which meant it was likely a teammate. Someone probably forgot toothpaste or something.

He dragged himself to the door and opened it, more than a little surprised to see Patty standing there, in basketball shorts and a threadbare Dodgers t-shirt. His face was placid, but Derek swallowed. Patty acted more like a coach than a teammate, often, and he got the feeling that he was about to be yelled at. “Hey. Come on in.”

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” he asked, and Derek shook his head.

“Nah, just reading. What’s up?”

“Not much,” Patty said, shrugging his shoulders in a clear attempt to look casual. “Just wanted to talk before your start tomorrow.”

He sprawled in the desk chair, propping his feet up on the desk, and Derek sat down carefully on the end of the bed. “Okay.”

“Have you been watching Giants tape?” he asked, and Derek gave him a funny look. That was what they _did_ before starts, watch tape of the batters they’d be facing.

“Yeah, of course.” _Pretty much 24-7_ , he added in his head.

“Well, I’ve been watching _your_ tape, from the Pittsburgh game.”

Derek winced. He hadn’t been doing that, and that wasn’t an accident. “Oh god. See anything illuminating?”

“Actually, yeah,” Patty said, aimlessly doodling on the pad of hotel stationary. “What do you think went wrong that day?”

Derek swallowed. “I have no idea. It felt like a piece of me was missing. My grip felt weird, my throw felt awkward. And then no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get it back under control when I lost it.”

“You’re going through a slump,” Patty said, nodding. “It happens to everyone. Something’s wrong with your grip, your mechanics are off, the planets are misaligned, whatever. That shit happens. I’ve been in the game a long time, you know? And that means I’ve caught a _lot_ of pitchers. And it turns out, when guys go through slumps and react badly, they do it in one of two ways. They either blame everything around them—shitty defense, bad umpires, whatever—or they blame _themselves_ too much and start trying to change everything all at once. Which one do you think you are?”

Derek snorted. “The second one.”

“Yeah, exactly. You’re great, Derek, really great. And you’ve probably been great since you were 15. But you need to learn how to deal with adversity because you _are_ going to have bad starts, it’s just a fact. A few a year, probably.”

“Right,” he said, blowing out a breath. Patty let his feet fall to the floor with a clunk and leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees.

“You’re overcorrecting when things start to go wrong. You’re doing the right thing, sure, but you’re going _too_ far in the other direction.”

“Overcorrecting,” he repeated, and Patty nodded.

“You are very good. Pitch by pitch, you’re going to win more than you lose, for sure. But sometimes, because we’re all professionals, the other guy’s gonna win. Just because someone gets a hit off you doesn’t automatically mean it was a bad pitch. Make corrections if you need to, but don’t throw everything else out of whack just because something went wrong one time. That’s when it starts to feel really off, like you were describing. You’ve gotta trust yourself, Hale. Trust your judgment, trust that you know what you’re doing.”

Derek nodded slowly, his mind spinning as he tried to process everything he was saying. “Okay.”

“Do you visualize?”

He blinked. “Um, no?” he tried, and Patty laughed.

“Let me guess, you replay the bad highlights instead,” he said, and Derek nodded sheepishly. “It sounds hokey as hell, I know, but it really does work. Think through your pitches, think through how you’re gonna approach these guys, picture it going well in your head. Hell, even think through it going _badly_ , and how you’re going to keep a handle on things.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that,” Derek said, biting his lip. Patty stood up with a sharp nod and headed toward the door. “Hey, thanks, Patty. Really.”

Patty clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re having an amazing season, Derek. You’re a good pitcher, and it’ll come back. You just need to relax. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

* * *

Derek threw himself headfirst into visualizing, with all the enthusiasm of someone trying to distract himself from something else, and by the time he arrived at the stadium the next morning, he was definitely feeling calmer.

He had no idea if it was placebo effect or not, but he wasn’t going to question it.

The bullpens at AT&T Park were on the field, in the foul territory, and Derek easily ignored the jeers of the Giants fans as they watched him warm up. There were a few blue-clad Dodgers fans scattered in the nearby seats, trying valiantly to have their cheers heard over the sheer volume of Giants fans, and he tipped his hat toward them with a little point as he headed into the dugout.

It was a beautiful day, breezy with puffy clouds drifting across the blue sky, and Derek felt moderately settled by the time he and Patty jogged out together for the bottom of the first inning.

“You’ve got this shit,” Patty said, patting him on the ass with his glove before he veered off toward home plate. “I’m here, the whole team’s behind you.”

Derek nodded and took the ball from him, tossing it to Danny so that the infield could start their warmup. _Overcorrecting, overcorrecting, overcorrecting_ , he chanted in his head. _You’re in control, your stuff is good. Relax._

* * *

Derek ended up getting pulled at the end of the sixth, after giving up four runs. It wasn’t quite a _quality start_ —technically defined as at least six innings with no more than three runs—but it was pretty close. And more importantly, he didn’t start freaking out when things went wrong.

He walked down to the end of the dugout, accepting the fist bumps and head pats along the way, and slumped in his customary corner. Patty hopped up on the bench next to him and started unbuckling his leg guards. “So how’d it feel?”

“Better,” Derek said, after a minute. “Something still feels a little off, but I tried not to force it.”

“Yeah, you did a good job. It’ll come back.”

Derek nodded. It was still disappointing, without question, but he didn’t feel as unhinged and frantic as he did after the last start. Patty was right. He was a good pitcher, and it would come back.

After he showered and attempted to patiently answer the media’s questions, Derek found a quiet spot in the visitors’ clubhouse and plopped down in the corner, staring at his phone. Their last message, Stiles’ terse “ok” from five days ago, taunted him, and he stared at it, trying to think of what to say. He’d _overcorrected_ with Stiles, too, he knew, and treated him unfairly. He needed to apologize, at the very least.

5:09 PM **Derek:** Can I come over tomorrow night after we get in?  
  
**Derek:** I’m sorry I’ve been such a dick.  
  
**Stiles:** Bring food and I’ll think about forgiving you.

Derek exhaled and scratched at his beard. He could do food.

* * *

It probably wasn’t what Patty had in mind when he gave that advice, but on the car ride over to Stiles’ on Sunday night, Derek tried to visualize how their conversation would go. He would apologize—profusely—and hopefully Stiles would forgive him and then Derek would be able to go to sleep with Stiles in his arms again. Easy, right? He grimaced at the thought. God, he hoped so.

Derek made two stops on the way from the airport, and before he knew it, he was standing on Stiles’ doorstep, trying not to freak out. But before he could even work up the courage to knock on the door, Stiles opened it.

“Uh, hi,” Derek said, swallowing as his eyes roved over Stiles. They hadn’t seen each other in person in two weeks, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed him, the _physical_ him, until right this moment.

Stiles blinked at him and dropped his gaze to Derek’s hands. “How’d you know lilies were my favorite flower? How did you know I even _had_ a favorite flower?”

“I talked to Lydia,” he admitted. “It took me forever to get ahold of her, I kept getting rerouted to her assistant.”

Stiles snorted and took the small bouquet from Derek’s hands. “Yeah, that’s her passive-aggressive way of telling someone that she’s mad at them.”

“And what’s _your_ passive-aggressive way of telling someone that you’re mad at them?” Derek asked, trying for levity. The corner of Stiles’ mouth twitched up a tiny bit, so maybe it worked.

“Not texting them,” he said, without missing a beat. “Even though I knew they were probably having a bad week.”

Derek sighed and slumped against the door jamb. “I’m really sorry.”

“C’mon in,” Stiles said, pressing a chaste kiss to Derek’s cheek as he went by him into the house. “So tacos are your official apology food, huh?”

“Apparently.”

Stiles laughed, gesturing toward the couch in the living room before ducking into the kitchen. Sunday Night Baseball was on the TV, as usual, and Derek took a quick look—Twins and Cubs, neither of which were challenging the Dodgers for a playoff spot, so he didn’t care.

Stiles came back with plates and napkins, and sat on the floor next to Derek, reaching for a taco. “So what happened?” he asked, and Derek sighed.

“I had a bad start. And then freaked out about it.”

Stiles hummed. “Hurt my feelings, you know,” he said, paying very studious attention to scraping out the little container of guacamole. “That you said I was a distraction.”

Derek swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, you did.”

_Fuck_.

Derek nibbled at his lower lip and nodded. “I was selfish. And making rash decisions.”

“You kind of acted like a dick.”

“I did,” Derek confessed. He bumped their knees together. “And I’m sorry. I…I was starting to doubt myself, that I could handle this, _us_ , in addition to everything else. Which is unfair to you, obviously, and not to mention not true.”

“I mean, if you want more space—”

“I don’t,” Derek said quickly. “Not at all. Do you?”

Stiles shook his head. “No, I don’t. But are you gonna go hot and cold on me next time you have a bad start?” he asked frankly, and Derek grimaced.

“God no. That was awful. _I_ was awful. I have been such a pain to be around, you don’t even know.”

“Oh, I could guess,” Stiles said, with a little smirk, and Derek laughed.

“It’s just…it’s been _just_ baseball for so long in my life, which means this is an adjustment. But I’m trying. I swear.”

Stiles hummed again, popping his thumb in his mouth to suck off the salsa. “I forgive you, you big lug, stop looking so sad.”

Derek’s instinctive sigh of relief was so loud that they both laughed, and Stiles leaned over, sealing their lips together even as his shoulders still shook. “Thank you,” Derek mumbled, and Stiles nipped at his lower lip.

“Look at us, we just survived our first fight.”

“My fault,” Derek admitted, and Stiles snorted.

“Just means I’ll get the next one.”

After they finished eating, Derek took off his blazer—safely assuming that he wasn’t going to be kicked out—and stretched out on the couch with his head in Stiles’ lap. Stiles traced his fingers through Derek’s hair, scratching at his scalp, and the tension that Derek had been carrying in his shoulders for a week practically melted out of him. He pressed his mouth against the fabric of Stiles’ pajama pants to stop himself from saying something stupid. How could he ever think, however briefly, that _this_ was something he had to deprive himself of? He was a fucking idiot. A _lucky_ fucking idiot, that was for damn sure.

Stiles still seemed to have an uncanny ability to tell when Derek was about to fall asleep because just as his eyes started to fall shut, Stiles gently jostled his shoulder. “Hey, sleepy head. How about we go to bed?”

A good portion of Derek didn’t want to budge from this insanely comfortable position, but he nodded and pushed up to a seated position. He stripped down to his boxers and got ready for bed while Stiles putzed around the house, checking the locks and turning out lights.

He strolled into the bedroom, his messy hair sticking up in spikes and his loose t-shirt accentuating those wide shoulders, and Derek’s heart caught in his throat. Stiles was…not _perfect_ , Derek knew—he wasn’t that naive—but he was so good. So warm and lovely, and Derek definitely didn’t deserve him.

“What’s with the sad face?” Stiles asked, and Derek shook his head, trying for a smile.

“Nothing. Just tired.”

“Then let’s go to sleep. I’ve missed you.”

“Me, too,” Derek said truthfully, climbing into bed and sighing when Stiles curled up against him. It had been two weeks since they’d been able to fall asleep together, and it felt amazing.

Sleep didn’t come easily, though, and after Derek had flipped positions for about the sixth time, Stiles caught his arm and slid his hand down to tangle their fingers together briefly. “What’s wrong?” he mumbled, sounding about 75 percent asleep.

“Just thinking.”

“ _Brooding_ , you mean. What’s on your mind?”

Derek was quiet for a little while, and part of him hoped Stiles had fallen back asleep in the meantime. “I’m worried that I’m not good enough,” he said softly, and Stiles hummed.

“Good enough for what?” he asked, after a minute.

“Good enough at my job. Good enough for you.”

Stiles reached out blindly and patted him on the chest. “Even if your arm fell off tomorrow and you never threw another pitch a day in your life,” he murmured, “I’d still love you just the same.”

Derek’s eyes widened, looking up at the ceiling in the dark, and they were both silent for a second as Stiles’ words sunk in.

“Fuck,” Stiles yelped, waking himself up and scrambling up to his knees. He leaned over to switch the bedside lamp on, jabbing Derek in the gut in the process, and ran a frantic hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean—well, I _meant it_ , obviously, but I wasn’t saying it just to make you feel better. Oh shit, I’m ruining this. It’s too early, right? I’ve been thinking it but not saying it cause I didn’t want you to think I’m some sort of crazy person, but—”

“I love you, too,” Derek interrupted, and Stiles froze.

“I…are you serious?”

“Yeah,” he said, laughing. “Get back down here.”

Derek tugged at his hip, and Stiles landed in a sprawl on Derek’s chest, making him grunt. “I love you,” he said, mumbling the words against Derek’s lips as they kissed, frantic and scrambling.

“I love you, too,” Derek said, gripping Stiles’ hair to move him so he could kiss down the long line of his neck. “I missed you so fucking much.”

Groaning, Stiles squirmed a hand between them and pawed at Derek’s dick. “I think we’re gonna need to have sex.”

Derek laughed and pressed his head back against the pillow. “You were almost asleep. And I’m tired.”

“Too fuckin’ bad. You can just lay there, I’ll do all the work.”

“Okay,” he said, a little too quickly, and Stiles smirked at him.

“Lazy butt.”

“You love bossing me around, don’t lie.”

“Maybe a little,” Stiles admitted. “Now shut up and let me blow you.”

“Okay,” Derek said again, murmuring the words as his eyes fell shut. Stiles’ mouth felt like an indulgence he didn’t deserve, but he tried to shove those thoughts aside in favor of enjoying it.

He came embarrassingly fast—jerking off didn’t really fit into his week of self-inflicted punishment, after all—but Stiles didn’t last that much longer when Derek hauled him up by the shoulders and curled a careful hand around his dick.

Stiles was practically already snoring by the time he slumped off of Derek and onto the pillow, and he didn’t budge when Derek reached over him to grab a tissue from the nightstand. He cleaned off his stomach and managed to slide further down into the sheets without dislodging Stiles’ grip.

“I love you,” he whispered, grinning when Stiles mumbled something unintelligible in response.

* * *

 The umpire called a ball, the fourth one, and Derek watched in irritation as the batter bent to remove his shin guard before jogging to first base. It was the ninth inning, and he was somehow still pitching, but he knew this walk would probably be the last straw for Finstock.

Sure enough, he popped out of the dugout, heading toward the mound, and Derek cursed. He finally felt _back_ , and he wasn’t ready to leave this game. So before Finstock could even open his mouth to say something, Derek jumped in. “Just let me finish this. Please. My arm is fine, I swear,” he lied. It was quite sore, actually, but not to the extent that Derek needed to be worried, he knew.

Finstock sighed and looked at Patty, who looked at Derek. He squinted. “Let him go,” he said, nodding, and Derek exhaled. Finstock held up both hands and took a step back off the mound.

“Fine. But one more baserunner, and you’re outta there, Hale. Finish it up.”

He nodded and turned away, plucking the ball out of Patty’s glove before Finstock could change his mind.

The next three batters went down like clockwork, one-two-three, and Derek pumped his fist, letting out a victorious shout. It wasn’t a no-hitter, but it was a complete game shut-out, and Derek felt just as proud, if not more so, as he had on that night in April.

The Dodgers won, the Giants lost, and the playoff race was back on.


	9. September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Derek deals with a homophobic teammate who uses a homophobic slur. It's fairly brief, but there are more details in the endnotes.

“You see how he gets antsy?” Patty asked. “He’s more susceptible to fishing for a bad pitch when he’s ahead in the count.”

“Yeah,” Derek said, nodding as he jotted it down in his notebook. “Yeah, I should be able to get him with a curveball, low and away. That’s what the numbers say, anyway. Can you replay that at-bat one more time?”

Patty nodded and reached forward to fiddle with the computer.

Before each series, all the pitchers and catchers got together to watch film on the team they were facing and come up with a game plan for how they were going to face the different batters. Derek didn’t have a whole lot of his own experience, since it was only his second year, so he relied heavily on watching film of pitchers who were similar to him, as well as talking to the other pitchers on the team, who had faced more players over their years.

The meeting was breaking up, and before Derek could talk himself out of it, he caught Patty’s arm as he passed. “Hey. Can I talk to you for a sec?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, smoothly veering back and plopping down in a folding chair. “What’s up?”

Derek scratched at his beard and waited very pointedly until the door closed behind the last person. “This is private,” he said lowly, and Patty blinked a little before shifting in his chair.

“Okay. What is it?”

Derek sighed and squeezed his nails into his palms, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the hairline crack in the plaster just over Patty’s shoulder. He really hoped this wasn’t going to screw everything up. He was _pretty sure_ Patty was liberal-leaning, at least, based on some of the things he said, but he was aware enough to know that might not cover it. “I’m in a relationship with a, uh, with a man.”

It was silent for a second, and Derek finally forced himself to look Patty in the eye. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and nodded. “I’m really honored that you trust me enough to tell me that, Derek. Honestly,” he added. “Is it, uh, anyone on the team?” he asked, with a little wince, and Derek snorted.

“No.” He knew better than that, at least.

“Does anyone in the organization know?”

“Boyd does. And Danny.”

“And do you want to tell anyone else?”

Derek grimaced. “I don’t know. But I, uh…I’m thinking about coming out. Like, for real.”

Patty nodded, looking impressed. “That would be a big deal.”

“I know,” he said, looking down at his hands. “Do you think I should do it?”

He sighed. “I can’t sit here and tell you that I think it’ll be easy.”

“Right,” Derek said, running a hand through his hair.

“But I do think it would be important to enough people to make it worth it.”

Derek opened his mouth, then closed it again. Holy shit.

He’d only been thinking about it in a purely selfish way—how it would affect his career, how much it would suck to have people talking about his personal life, how he’d be judged. He had literally never thought about what it might mean to _other_ people.

“I hadn’t thought about it like that,” he admitted.

“Statistically,” Patty said, shrugging, “there are probably a lot of young kids out there who play baseball and might be questioning their sexuality but don’t think they would be accepted in the bigs.”

“I was one of those kids,” he blurted out, before he even knew what he was saying. The look Patty gave him was soft, and Derek had to look away.

“And until an active MLB player actually comes out, they don’t have any reason to think otherwise,” he said frankly.

“Yeah,” Derek said, nodding. He had no idea if he was capable of shouldering that much responsibility. “I…I don’t know.”

“Well, you don’t have to decide today. You might want to tell someone in the front office, though, just to give them a heads up so they’re prepared in case you’re outed before you’re ready.”

Derek grimaced. He knew that was a possibility, but he hated thinking about it. He couldn’t even imagine having his privacy, let alone Stiles’, violated so explicitly. They were pretty careful in that they rarely went anywhere together, but still. “Yeah. Yeah that’s a good idea.”

“Or hell, I’ll do it,” Patty said, leaning forward. “I can tell them that there’s someone on the team who’s not straight, and they want the organization to be prepared in case the information leaks before they’re ready.”

Derek hesitated. That would be convenient, but— “No, I can do it. Thanks, though. Parker, you think?” he asked, and Patty nodded. Parker Olsen was promoted to general manager of the Dodgers last year, and before that he’d actually been the one to recruit Derek from UCLA.

“Yeah, probably. He’s a good guy, he’ll keep it confidential.”

“You think he’ll be okay with it?”

Patty shrugged. “Not to conflate different kinds of diversity, but he is the first black GM of the Dodgers.”

“I just—I don’t want to let it become a distraction.”

“That’s bullshit,” Patty said frankly. “If it came out, and if for some reason the team couldn’t handle it, then we wouldn’t deserve to win anything.”

“Right,” he said with a sigh.

“If you hear anyone in this organization say or do anything that isn’t explicitly supportive, you tell me, okay? And I’ll take care of it.”

* * *

Derek stopped outside Stiles’ door and rummaged though his bag for his keys, picking out the new one with the purple top while he knocked perfunctorily on the door.

Stiles often spent nights at Derek’s during the week, if he was in town, but it had turned into an unspoken tradition that if Derek was getting home from a road trip, especially on a Sunday night, he would be going to Stiles’ house—the house that he now had a key to, as of last week.

“The key works,” he announced as he walked through the door, and Stiles’ eyes lit up, springing up off the couch and walking toward the door.

“Good to know,” he murmured, drawing him into a kiss, and Derek sighed into it. He hated being apart, but he couldn’t deny that the reunions were sweet.

“I was afraid it would break in the lock or something. That would be a bad omen,” he said after they pulled back, and Stiles snorted.

“Hey,” he said, grinning, and Derek smiled helplessly back at him.

“Hi.”

“You have the day off tomorrow,” he said, his grin getting even wider, and Derek’s matched it.

“That I do.”

“Which means that we have _two nights_ together,” he said, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck. “And all day tomorrow, right? Do you have to go to the stadium?”

“No,” Derek said, shaking his head. “I should work out some, but I can do that here.”

Stiles’ eyes lit up. “Can I make popcorn and watch?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Very funny.”

“It’s cute that you think I’m joking. Hey, you hungry or anything?” he asked, and Derek shook his head.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Derek,” Stiles complained. “You’re supposed to say something corny like, ‘I’m not hungry for _food_.’”

“I’m not hung—”

Stiles interrupted him with a groan and a kiss. “You’re such a dork,” he whispered, and Derek hummed as he slid his hands under his t-shirt. He just petted for a second, enjoying the feel of Stiles’ warm skin under his hands, and then he thrust his fingers into Stiles’ armpits and wiggled.

“What was that you called me?” he said, still tickling, and Stiles collapsed in his grip, laughing helplessly.

“A _dork_. And I’m not taking it back.”

He lunged up and kissed Derek, hot and desperate, and it was enough to successfully distract him from the tickling. Derek groaned into it and moved his hands to Stiles’ waist, using his grip to hold him against the wall.

“So. What,” Stiles said, punctuating his words with kisses, “do you think,” more kisses, “about fucking me?”

Derek froze, returning the kisses mostly on autopilot. They hadn’t…hadn’t done that yet, hadn’t even really talked about it, besides a couple off-hand comments, and Derek was reeling.

Stiles was staring at him, looking a little concerned, and Derek realized that he hadn’t said anything yet.

“Yes,” he said, stumbling to get the word out as quickly as possible. “Yes, let’s do that, yeah.”

Stiles pressed his lips together, as if he were holding back a smile. “So that’s a _no_ , then?” he drawled, and Derek growled.

“Shut up,” he said fondly, stepping closer into the thin sliver of space in between their bodies. He slid his hands to Stiles’ ass, pausing to squeeze, and then curved them around the back of his thighs. He tried to lift, but his biceps were shot from his workout earlier that morning.

“It’s late, I’m tired,” he whined, leaning his forehead against Stiles’ temple, and Stiles cracked up.

“It’s okay, we can just, you know, _walk_ to the bedroom.”

“Boring,” Derek muttered, and Stiles let out an overwrought sigh.

“C’mere, kiss me,” he demanded, and Derek wasn’t an idiot.

They made their way to the bedroom slowly, pausing to yank off shirts and socks. They broke apart to finish stripping perfunctorily, and Stiles was gloriously naked by the time he clambered on top of Derek on the bed.

“Goddamn, you are gorgeous,” he breathed, sliding his hand up Derek’s chest. Derek flushed under the attention and tugged him down for a kiss, deep and searching. He loved having Stiles on top of him, his solid, lean weight holding him down. There was so much smooth, hot skin to touch, and he let his hands drift down to Stiles’ ass, squeezing.

Derek swallowed. “Uh…is this the way you normally—”

Stiles grinned at him but thankfully didn’t comment on his awkward stammering. “I am _more_ than happy to go either way, but I figured this is best for now. Let you work up to the other way around. Not that you ever have to,” he hastened to add. “Obviously.”

Derek hesitated. “Probably. Some day.”

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

“Cool?” he repeated with a snort, and Stiles groaned, tipping his head to rest on Derek’s shoulder.

“I’m about to have sex! I can’t exactly think straight right now. Sue me.”

“We have sex all the time,” Derek reminded him, his lips making a trail of biting kisses along Stlies’ neck.

“Well, maybe I’m being influenced by the false importance that society places on penetrative sex.”

“Wow, that was a coherent sentence.”

“It’s probably the, uh, the last one you’ll hear for a while,” he said, craning his neck to give Derek more room.

Derek snorted. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“Hey!” Stiles protested, reaching out to smack him, but Derek caught his hand, twisting their fingers together.

“That wasn’t a complaint,” he said, squeezing his hand, and Stiles’ eyes softened.

“You’re such a sap. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Derek said, curving his hand around Stiles’ ass again. He dipped in a little farther and raised his eyebrows at the slight tackiness that he felt there.

“Pregame warmups,” Stiles said with a little shrug, his eyes twinkling. “So to speak.”

Derek choked back a laugh, then a groan. “Oh, god.”

Stiles braced a hand on Derek’s chest and reached over to the nightstand. “Give me your hand.”

Derek held it out obediently and tried to warm the cool lube in between his fingers. One finger slipped easily into Stiles, followed by another one, and he swallowed. “You were a man with a plan.”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed, his eyes falling shut as he rocked back against Derek’s hand. He suddenly sat up a little, causing Derek’s fingers to slip out of him, and his face was serious. “But we don’t—we certainly don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to,” Derek insisted. “I promise. Get back down here.”

“Okay,” he said, his gaze going hazy again as Derek slid three fingers in this time. “I believe you.”

Derek had made decent progress, he thought, from his first fumbling attempts at fingering Stiles, and how he knew just the angle to use to make his jaw go slack. “C’mere,” he murmured, and Stiles collapsed against his chest. Derek nudged his face with his nose, angling for a kiss, and Stiles indulged him. The kiss was deep and soft, only turning sloppy when Derek hit that spot inside of Stiles, making him groan.

“Okay,” Stiles said, pulling away from Derek’s mouth and exhaling wetly against his shoulder. “I’m ready.”

He didn’t move, though, and Derek continued to pump in and out lazily, until Stiles sat up with a groan.

“Condom?” Derek asked, and Stiles hesitated, his gaze falling away from Derek’s.

“So, feel free to tell me that this is crazy,” he started, “but…I’ve never done that before, had sex without a condom. And I, uh, I thought it would be nice if we could maybe _each_ have a first time here. But that’s cheesy, I know.”

His cheeks were a little red, and Derek couldn’t hold in a little laugh. “It’s not cheesy, that’s fine. _More_ than fine. Obviously. It’s up to you.”

Derek got a startlingly thorough physical each spring, and since Stiles had gotten tested, too, as soon as they started having sex, it didn’t matter either way to him.

“Okay,” Stiles said decisively, reaching for the lube again.

Derek was aching for some friction on his dick, which had been hard ever since Stiles mentioned what he wanted to do, and he groaned when Stiles wrapped a slick hand around him. He stroked just a few times, enough to spread a liberal coating of lube, and Derek maybe whimpered a little when he took his hand away.

“How do you—”

Stiles interrupted him with a hum. “Uh, let’s try like this. Come on,” he said, crawling off Derek. He kneeled up against the headboard, his hands braced against the wall, and Derek scrambled up to slot in behind him.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice so low and raspy that Derek had to close his eyes. “I…I like the idea of you behind me.”

Derek took the thin skin over Stiles’ shoulder in between his teeth and sucked, leaving a little mark. Stiles gasped, tipping his head forward, and Derek licked over the spot. “Fuck. Yes, fuck.”

Stiles laughed, breathless. “Then get on with it, Hale.”

Derek swallowed hard and lined himself up, his fingers digging into Stiles’ hip. He’d never done this before, obviously, but he figured that slow was good, probably, so he inched forward at a glacial pace until he was about halfway inside.

Stiles was silent, his whole body arched and taught like a bow, and Derek got a little nervous, especially when he could see the white of Stiles’ knuckles as he gripped the headboard. “Is this—”

“Yeah, fuck,” he said, exhaling harshly as his body relaxed just a bit. “It’s just been a, uh, a long time.”

He twisted his hand back to clumsily grab at Derek’s hip, then _shoved_ , and Derek bottomed out in one quick movement. He caught himself against the wall and froze, his mouth dropped open in surprise while Stiles panted. It was tight and slick and burning hot at the same time, and Derek had to bite his lip and focus on that sensation instead.

“Fuck,” he breathed, burying his nose in Stiles’ hair. “Jesus Christ.”

Stiles laughed, a little stilted, and shifted his weight restlessly on his knees. “You can move. Come on.”

He started slow and small, as much for his benefit as Stiles’, just drawing out maybe an inch before pushing back in. Apparently that wasn’t enough, though, because Stiles started moving more aggressively and taking control of the pace on his own.

Soon Stiles was whimpering and groaning, sounding absolutely wrecked, and Derek couldn’t believe that he was even getting to witness this, let alone contribute to it. “Fuck, Derek,” he said, his voice tight and strained, and Derek kept his eyes locked on the bunching of his shoulder muscles as he pushed himself back. “You feel so goddamn good. God, you’re…you’re just so good.”

Derek shook his head, even though Stiles obviously couldn’t see him. He wanted to refute that—say something about how _Stiles_ was the good one, in all ways, the least of all in the bedroom—but Derek was completely incapable of turning thoughts to speech at the moment.

He had to stop suddenly and clench his eyes shut, focusing all of his attention on trying to calm down and _not_ on how fucking good Stiles felt around him and how, consequentially, he was so damn close to coming.

“You okay?” Stiles asked, curling one hand around Derek’s forearm.

“Yeah,” Derek bit out, his voice tight. “Just want you to come first.”

He snorted. “Oh my god, you’re a competitive fucker, aren’t you?”

“Obviously,” Derek murmured.

“Okay, then, how about— _ah_.” Stiles’ voice broke off when Derek thrust forward again. “How about we make this a little more interesting?”

“You mean this isn’t already _interesting_?” he asked, speeding up his thrusts for a few seconds, and Stiles whined, pressing his cheek against the wall. “I’m insulted.”

“Shut _up_ , you know what I mean. It’s a _saying_ ,” he said, his voice going triumphant when he… _clenched_ or something, enough to make Derek’s brain feel like it was leaking out of his ears. He let out a pathetic noise, and Stiles laughed. “Whoever makes the other person come first wins.”

Derek hummed and slowed down a little. “What does the winner get?”

“Uh…breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“Okay, deal. But I feel like I need a handicap here,” he said, and Stiles made that noise that always accompanied his eye roll.

“You’re a professional athlete,” he reminded him. “You get _zero_ handicaps. Ever. Including here.”

Derek sighed and braced one hand on the wall next to Stiles’ shoulder, wrapping the other around his hip. He sped up again, sliding in and out with long strokes, and Stiles cried out, his hands scrabbling against the wall. Derek held him against the wall a little more with the weight of his upper body, and Stiles slumped in his grip.

He gritted his teeth—he wasn’t going to get tired, but he _was_ going to come. Which meant that _Stiles_ needed to come, like as soon as humanly possible, so Derek slid his hand from Stiles’ hip around to his dick.

But as soon as he circled his hand around it, Stiles shoved him back with a grunt, causing Derek to lose his balance and land on his ass with an _oof_. Before he could even comprehend what was happening, Stiles had whirled around and straddled him, sinking back down onto him with a low hiss. He was moving fast, his thigh muscles bunching, and he had a death grip on Derek’s wrists, holding them against Derek’s chest with one big hand to keep him from touching Stiles’ dick.

“You’re cheating,” Derek gasped. “This is unfair.”

“You’re definitely stronger than me,” Stiles said, running his free hand through his hair to get it out of his face. “You could switch our position.”

Derek _could_ , and he thought about it half-heartedly for a few minutes, but it felt way too good to put much effort into it and he had way too much to look at. He let his gaze drift from Stiles’ face, red with exertion, to his broad shoulders and his strong forearms, as they held tight to Derek’s wrists.

He braced his feet on the bed and found enough leverage to thrust his hips up against Stiles, disrupting his rhythm. Stiles laughed and went with it, indulging Derek’s unspoken desire to slow this down a little bit. He had already passed the point of inevitability, for sure, but— _fuck_.

Derek had a split-second to think, _damn, I lost_ , but then his frustration evaporated in the face of mind-melting pleasure. He rocked up against Stiles once more, hard, and cried out as he came with a shudder.

The frustration returned, though, as he slowly floated back to himself, gasping for breath, and he glared at Stiles, who was looking down at him with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. “Well, well, well.”

“Oh, shut _up_ ,” he grumbled, forcibly lifting Stiles off his dick and tossing him down onto his back. “Smug is not a good look on you.”

“Smug is a _great_ look on me, what are you—”

His voice cut off in a very flattering fashion as Derek closed his lips around the head of his dick. Stiles’ hands went immediately to his hair, tugging, and Derek slid two careful fingers back inside Stiles. It was even hotter and slicker than before, obviously, making Derek groan.

Stiles clearly wasn’t far behind him, which made Derek feel a little better. He yanked on Derek’s hair, hard enough to make him wince, and he obediently pulled off. Stiles covered his face and groaned as he came, arching up into Derek’s grip. “Shit, shit, _shit_ ,” he chanted, grimacing as his aftershocks seemed to last longer than usual, and Derek laid a careful hand on his ribs.

“You okay?”

“Holy shit, yes,” he gasped, finally moving his hands and blinking his eyes open. His gaze was hazy, and Derek didn’t bother resisting the impulse to lean in and kiss him. “Fuck,” he mumbled into the kiss.

“So that was okay?” Derek asked, and Stiles snorted.

“Stop fishing for compliments, you dork. If that was even half as amazing for you as it was for me, then you know.”

“It was,” he said. Stiles flopped onto his side and yanked Derek closer, drawing him into a sloppy kiss.

“And it was even better because I won,” he said, grinning, and Derek sighed.

“You did. I won’t even contest it.”

They kissed for a minute, lazily, but Stiles grunted with something that didn’t sound exactly like pleasure when Derek pulled his thigh up over his own hip and squeezed his ass. “You okay?” he asked, stilling, and Stiles nodded.

“Little sore, it’s fine.”

“You need anything?”

“Just a washcloth. And I’m a little hungry now. Like, for actual food,” Stiles admitted, and Derek flattened his hand over his back.

“I’ll go get something. Stay here.”

“My hero,” Stiles mumbled, his face mashed into the pillow, and Derek grinned. He crawled out of bed, scrounging on the floor for his discarded boxers, and pulled the blanket back carefully over Stiles. He dampened a washcloth with warm water and left it on the nightstand.

He putzed around Stiles’ kitchen, surprised that such a minor thing could make him so pleased—knowing that the utensils were in the drawer next to the fridge and that Stiles inexplicably kept both smooth and crunchy peanut butter at all times.

Stiles liked carbs after sex, and since Derek could never turn down a good piece of peanut butter toast, he dropped a few pieces of bread into the toaster. He used both peanut butters, because he knew it would make Stiles laugh, then he rummaged through the fruit bowl and added mashed banana to his piece of toast, thin slices of apple to Stiles’.

He piled it all on one big plate, debated a beer, then filled a water glass instead.

Stiles looked like he was sleeping, but his eyes nudged open as soon as Derek stepped over the threshold into the bedroom. “Mmm, that smells so good,” he said, sitting up against the headboard and letting the sheets pile around his waist. “You even brought _napkins_. You’re so domesticated.”

“No one likes a crumby bed,” he said, mock-serious as he climbed into bed, and Stiles grinned at him.

Stiles scarfed down his toast in about three bites, and there were still bread crumbs around his mouth when he turned to Derek with an eager look in his eye. Derek raised an eyebrow and scooted over another inch.

“No way. Just because you eat like an animal doesn’t mean you get to eat mine.”

“Please?” he wheedled, and Derek promptly stuffed the rest of his piece into his mouth.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “All gone.”

“Gross,” Stiles said, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t even know why I like you.”

“That’s a lie,” Derek said, still chewing.

“Oh, right,” he said with a solemn nod. “It’s because you’re hot and rich.”

Derek rolled his eyes and carefully moved the plate to the floor so he wouldn’t break anything when he tickled the shit out of Stiles.

* * *

Derek was having a good fucking dream.

The details were blurry, but it was hot and sweaty and somebody was getting fucked…he wasn’t sure who. There were hands scrabbling over skin, fingers clenching in the sheets—

He woke up with a gasp, achingly hard. Stiles was spooning him, and his arm tightened across his chest. “Shh,” he mumbled. “Back to sleep.”

But even as he said the words, his hips hitched against Derek’s ass. Well, _certain_ parts of him were certainly awake, anyway.

“Stiles,” he whispered, reaching a hand back to squeeze his thigh. This feeling would probably fade sometime, this _incessant_ horniness anytime he was around Stiles, so he figured he’d better take advantage of it. “Stiles, wake up.”

Stiles moved his hips again, his dick a hard line against the curve of Derek’s ass, and he pressed a sloppy kiss to the nape of Derek’s neck. He groaned, tipping his head forward to exhale wetly against Derek’s shoulder. “Fuck. Can you—can you reach the stuff?”

Derek stretched one arm and fumbled on the nightstand, sending someone’s phone clattering to the floor before he finally closed his fingers around the bottle of lube. He handed it over his shoulder to Stiles, who dropped it with a curse.

Derek closed his eyes and stroked his dick idly as Stiles did something behind him. Suddenly, Stiles’ dick slid through the space between his thighs, slick and easy, and Derek jerked in surprise.

“Is this okay?” Stiles asked, his voice rough. “Not—I wouldn’t…not that.”

Derek nodded, pushing back against Stiles’ dick hard enough to make him grunt. Right now, as long as he got off, he didn’t really care what Stiles did. “Yeah, fuck. Come on.”

Stiles groaned and lifted his leg over Derek’s, locking him in place as he rocked back and forth. It was just as hot and sweaty as it had been in his dream, with Stiles as a line of scorching heat against Derek’s back, his front cold in contrast.

“Is this a dream?” Stiles slurred, leaving little biting kisses along Derek’s neck. “Feels like a dream.”

Derek laughed as best he could, considering the circumstances. “No, you’re awake. Promise.”

“Right,” he said, speeding up. Derek had his own hand on his dick, loosely, but he wasn’t worried about getting off at the moment, more enjoying the feel of Stiles around him. “Plus, I’d be lasting a lot longer in my dreams.”

“Are you gonna come?” he asked, and Stiles’ breath hitched.

“Uh-huh.”

Derek tried to clench tighter, giving Stiles a smaller space to fuck into. Less than a minute later, he buried a cry in Derek’s hair and clutched his arm as he spilled wetly on Derek’s thighs.

Derek groaned, Stiles shuddering behind him, and tried to stroke himself, but with the way Stiles was slumped over him, he didn’t have much room. Stiles sucked in a breath and rolled backward, making Derek shiver when the sweat on his back hit the cool air of the room.

Suddenly he was looking at the ceiling, and half of his dick was in Stiles’ mouth. He hissed and tried to arch up, but Stiles was draped over him. There was a slick finger against his prostate, suddenly, and Derek clenched his eyes shut. “Fuck.”

He was a lot closer to the edge than he thought, and when Stiles pulled off to take a quick breath, licking at his lips, Derek curled up off the bed and came. Stiles recovered admirably, stroking him through it before he swiped the back of his hand over his mouth and sat back on his heels.

“Wow,” he said, looking down at Derek. “You’re a mess.”

“Your fault,” he said mulishly, and Stiles laughed, grabbing his hand to haul him to a seated position.

“Yeah, so sorry for those awesome orgasms.”

“How did it all end up on _me_ somehow?”

“Strategic,” Stiles called out over his shoulder, on his way into the bathroom. “So you’d take a shower with me.”

“I’d have done that anyway,” he muttered, but from Stiles’ grin, he’d heard him.

They showered, and then Stiles made a point of stretching out leisurely on the couch to watch SportsCenter, while Derek started on breakfast. He made blueberry pancakes—which ended up only _slightly_ misshapen—eggs, and coffee. Breakfast of champions.

“Ahhh,” Stiles said, smiling in satisfaction when Derek brought him his plate on the couch. “Breakfast tastes so much better when you’re a _winner_.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Maybe I spit in yours,” he said, and Stiles snorted.

“Please. I’m not scared of your bodily fluids. These are really good by the way,” he said, his mouth full. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You did win fair and square.”

“And hey, look at us,” Stiles said, grinning as he continued to stuff pancakes into his mouth. “Just hangin’ out on a normal day, like a normal couple.”

Derek nodded, returning his enthusiasm with a small smile before his gaze dropped down to his plate. He couldn’t wait until they got to do _actual_ normal couple things, like go out to dinner wherever they wanted and attend all the dumb events that Derek got invited to but always turned down.

Someday.

* * *

Derek exhaled and plopped down backward in the chair in front of his locker, straddling it and bracing his forearms on the back as he swiped through his phone. The locker room was empty since most everyone had left already, but Derek was in no hurry to go home. Stiles was the one out of town this time, in New York for some meetings, and Derek hated the role reversal. It had only been three days, but his apartment already felt empty.

**Stiles:** Congrats on the win! I was able to catch the last few innings.  
  
**Stiles:** What’s the margin now?  
  
**Derek:** The Giants are up by half a game, they’ve been on a tear lately.  
  
**Derek:** But thanks. :) How are the meetings going?  
  
**Stiles:** Ugh, they’re fine. Miss you, though.  
  
**Derek:** I miss you, too. A lot. Mostly in my bed.  
  
**Stiles:** Mmmm. Same.  
  
**Stiles:** Wearing my Dodgers hat in NY feels pretty sacrilegious.  
  
**Stiles:** You’re lucky I love you, is what I’m saying.

Stiles sent a photo of himself, wearing said hat and making a silly kissy-face expression, and Derek smiled down at it.

“Whoa.”

Derek jerked in surprise at the sudden voice, and he twisted to see Anderson, one of the older utility infielders that Derek didn’t know that well, leaning over his shoulder. He flushed and thumbed off the screen, as if that would do any good now. “I, uh—”

“You’re a fag? Really?”

Derek gaped at him. Was that a…joke? Anderson looked pretty damn serious, though. “What the—seriously?”

“I’m guessing it’s a secret?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest, and Derek swallowed.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

Anderson wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like it, but I’m not an asshole. And you’re a pretty good pitcher, so I won’t tell anyone.”

Derek gritted his teeth. He would disagree with the _not an asshole_ assessment, but considering that, he supposed this was the best he would get. Before Derek could think of something to say in response, Anderson swept out of the room with a sneer, and Derek was left to sit and wonder how things could have gotten so screwed up in under 30 seconds.

* * *

Derek managed to keep his distance from Anderson, for the most part, over the next few days. Luckily, as a pitcher, he didn’t really have to interact with the utility infielders very much. Anderson had started giving him a pointedly _wide_ berth in the locker room, sure, but that was just fine with Derek—he had no desire to be anywhere near the guy. And as far as Derek could tell, he hadn’t told anyone.

They hadn’t spoken to each other even once, at least not until Anderson brushed past him at his locker one morning. “Texting your faggy boyfriend again?” he murmured, and Derek saw red.

He dropped his phone and spun around, grabbing a hold of Anderson and slamming him up against the wall. “Don’t you ever say that again, I swear to god,” he hissed, twisting Anderson’s dumbass polo shirt in his hands. “Do you understand me?”

Anderson smirked at him and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Boyd and Isaac had grabbed both of Derek’s arms and were pulling him back.

“Hey!” Patty barked, striding over to them and somehow still radiating authority even while barefoot and with only a towel around his waist. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Nothing,” Anderson said, holding up his hands. He skirted around Derek and ducked out of the locker room before anyone could ask any more questions, and Patty gave them both a strange look.

“What the fuck, man?” Boyd asked, his brow furrowed, and Derek understood the confusion. He wasn’t known as one of the hotheads, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself when Anderson referred to Stiles.

He just shrugged, his jaw set. “He’s an ass.”

Boyd started to respond, but Derek brushed past him and out of the locker room. He was a little too riled up right now, and he needed to let his energy out in a productive way before he did something that he would regret. He was _starting_ tonight, even, which meant he really needed to calm down and get his head on straight without wearing himself out.

He liked to run a little on days that he started, usually outside on the field or up and down the steps of the stadium, but it was unseasonably hot outside today. So for the sake of saving some energy, he hopped on one of the treadmills in the training room.

He ran two miles, just enough to get him warmed up, and he felt a lot more settled with blood pumping in his veins and sweat beading on his face. He let himself think about Anderson for a few minutes—how much of an asshole he was, how disappointing it was that people actually felt that way, how awful it would be to deal with these people on a regular basis after he came out—before he forcibly pushed it out of his head in favor of focusing on his strategy for tonight.

They were deep in the playoff push, and every single game mattered. He wasn’t going to let some dick like Anderson affect him, affect their _team_.

The door to the training room opened and closed again behind him, and Derek wasn’t surprised when he turned around and saw Patty—he knew he wasn’t going to get off that easy. He sighed and slowed the treadmill speed to a walk.

“What the fuck was that, what’s going on? You don’t get in fights.”

Derek paused. He didn’t need anyone fighting his battles for him, but Patty _had_ said to keep him in the loop about this. And now it was clearly affecting the team.

“For fuck’s sake,” Patty said, rolling his eyes as he clearly sensed Derek’s hesitation. “Just spit it out.”

Derek blew out a breath. “Anderson found out about me and Stiles,” he said flatly. “He said he wouldn’t tell anyone, but he’s being kind of an asshole about it. Called me a fag. Called _him_ a fag, too, which was why I, uh—”

“Yeah, I don’t blame you,” he said, grimacing. “Jesus _Christ_ , what a dick.”

Derek snorted. “Yeah.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Patty said. “I’ll handle it.”

“You don’t ha—”

“I was serious what I said before,” Patty said sternly. “This team is better than that, and this isn’t going to become a problem.”

Derek fucking _hated_ being something that needed to be handled, something that could possibly be a distraction, but he nodded. “Thanks.”

“You good for tonight?” he asked, and Derek gave him a flat look.

“Obviously.”

“Good. Now go shower, you reek.”

Derek rolled his eyes and flipped Patty off on his way past.

* * *

Derek managed to keep his head on straight for the rest of the day, throwing seven nearly-perfect scoreless innings that night, and he couldn’t resist throwing Anderson a slightly smug look as he passed him in the dugout.

He took a seat at the end of the dugout after the got pulled, his arm wrapped carefully in his jacket, and Boyd and Danny each sat on either side of him. “Patty told us what happened,” Danny said, and Derek sighed.

“It’s fine.”

“We might have intervened,” Boyd said, completely nonchalant as he stared out at the field, spitting a sunflower seed shell onto the ground. “There might have been itching powder involved.”

Derek snorted and shook his head. “Thanks, guys. But seriously, just forget it. He doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, especially since he’s hitting, like, .209,” Danny said, rolling his eyes. “You’re a hell of a lot more important to the team than that dick is.” 

* * *

 Derek yawned as he let himself into his apartment, then jumped about a foot in the air when he saw Stiles grinning at him from the couch.

“Holy shit,” he said, dropping his bag and closing the door behind him. “What—what are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow.”

“That’s the kind of hello I get, after not seeing you for a week?” Stiles asked, quirking one eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I interrupting your special time with your _other_ secret boyfriend?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Just you is plenty, believe me,” he said, dropping down onto the couch next to Stiles and leaning in for a kiss. Stiles didn’t let him go for a minute, kissing him deeper, and Derek tugged one of Stiles’ legs across his lap. “Hello.”

“Hi,” he said, kissing the tip of Derek’s nose. “I caught an early flight home. Sorry for surprising you.”

Derek shook his head. “It’s the best surprise,” he mumbled against Stiles’ lips as he stroked up his thigh, under the hem of the basketball shorts he’d clearly taken from Derek’s dresser.

“Why do you look so bummed?”

Derek pulled away from Stiles’ neck with a hum. “What?”

“You have your sad eyebrows on,” he said, his hands cupping Derek’s face.

“I do not have _sad eyebrows_ ,” he protested, but Stiles just tilted his head.

“Your eyebrows are like, 90 percent of your facial expressions. I’m very good at reading them. What’s wrong? I watched the highlights from the game, you did great.”

Derek sighed. He’d rather not bother Stiles with this, to be honest, but— “Someone…someone found out about us, a few days ago.”

“Okay,” Stiles said slowly, his hand reaching out to cover Derek’s as if he was trying to soothe a wild animal. “What happened?”

“One of my teammates saw me texting you. Read them over my shoulder,” he said, still gritting his teeth over the blatant privacy violation.

“And what happened?”

“He said he wouldn’t tell,” Derek started, “so that’s good, I guess. But he’s a homophobic asshole.”

Stiles grimaced. “Shit, Der, I’m sorry. Who was it?”

“Anderson.”

“I have literally never even heard of him,” Stiles said, and Derek cracked a tiny smile.

“He’s just a benchwarmer.”

“Is it going to cause you any trouble?”

Derek shrugged. “I don’t think so. Patty and the other guys have my back. I think Boyd and Danny put itching powder in his jock,” he confessed, and Stiles snorted.

“He deserves it. Did anything else happen?” He hesitated, and Stiles’ gaze sharpened. “Derek.”

He flopped against the back of the couch with a groan and covered his face with his hands. “He called you a fag,” he mumbled, “and I maybe shoved him around a little.”

“Derek!” Stiles exclaimed, smacking him lightly on the shoulder. “You can’t risk yourself getting hurt because of me.”

“He was mean to you,” he said mulishly, and Stiles laughed.

“Yeah, well, he’s a dick, just forget about him. No more fights.”

“Nothing happened, it’s fine.”

Stiles sniffed and swung one of his legs over to straddle Derek’s lap. “Well, we should have a lot of super-gay sex, in his honor.”

“As opposed to the rest of our sex,” he said, curling his arms around Stiles’ waist, “which is only sort of gay?”

“Exactly,” Stiles said, mock-serious as he tapped Derek’s nose, and Derek laughed.

“Okay, deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of his teammates (not a canon TW character, hasn’t been mentioned so far) finds out about Stiles and calls Derek a fag. Their interactions are brief—he doesn’t out them to anyone, and while there is a moment of aggression on Derek’s part, there is no violence. If you'd like to skip it: when you get to the text message, you can skip to "Derek managed to keep his head on straight."


	10. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I figured that as I got nearer to the end of this fic, I wouldn't be able to wait a whole week in between chapters. And...I was right. :) Ch. 11 will be posted on Tuesday, as normal.
> 
> (Also: in this chapter, Stiles discloses a desire to have Derek initiate sexual contact while he (Stiles) is asleep. They play with that a little bit in a later scene, and it’s all explicitly consensual. It’s pretty clear when the scene is coming up, so it should be easy to skip if you’d like.)

Derek stepped out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam escaping with him, and rubbed a towel over his hair before flinging it toward the laundry basket in the corner. He looked around with a sigh—he’d come out of the bathroom naked for a _reason_ , after all, but Stiles was nowhere to be found in his bedroom. He pulled boxers on instead and rifled for a shirt through the half of the drawer in Stiles’ dresser that had been designated as his.

He found Stiles stretched out on the couch in the living room. His laptop was open on his stomach, but he was ignoring it in favor of reading Sports Illustrated. When he spotted Derek, he lowered the magazine with a grin.

“What are you doing?” Derek asked suspiciously. Stiles grinning like that was always cause for concern.

“Oh, you know,” he said airily, “just drooling over this new Under Armour ad.”

Derek groaned and stalked over, snatching the magazine from Stiles’ hands. “Let me see that.”

Under Armour had a full-page spread, and as soon as Derek caught a glimpse of himself, he grimaced and tossed it back at Stiles. “Oh, god.”

“Did you know it was coming out?”

Derek sighed. “I saw an email from my agent, but I didn’t open it.”

“My boyfriend is _ho-ot_ ,” Stiles said in a sing-song voice, and Derek groaned again.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

“Can I frame it?” he asked, tilting the magazine and bringing it closer to his face. “I think I need to make this the wallpaper on my phone.”

“No. To all of the above.”

Stiles laughed and rose up onto his knees, bracing his elbows on the back of the couch to look at Derek. “Will you pose like that for me sometime? Could I get my own private show?” Derek scowled at him and pushed him back down flat. He landed with a bounce, still laughing. “You look so _angry_. And shirtless. I’m a big fan.”

“Please stop,” he begged, rounding the couch. Stiles caught his hand and smiled, tugging him down.

“Fine. But I’m gonna need to buy a whole bunch of these.”

Derek let out an overwrought sigh and sat next to Stiles, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “This is very embarrassing.”

“No, it’s not,” Stiles said, picking up the magazine again. “You look very handsome.”

“I had forgotten that I even did that,” he said. He gently took the magazine out of Stiles’ hands and tossed it onto the ground.

“I guess they saved it for the playoffs,” Stiles said, and Derek pressed his lips together.

The Dodgers had snuck into the playoffs by the skin of their teeth. The Giants won the division, but the Dodgers managed to snag one of the Wild Card spots. That meant they were playing the Mets—one game, winner-take-all—for the privilege of playing the Nationals in the first round.

“They could be over for us the day after tomorrow,” Derek reminded him, but Stiles just rolled his eyes.

“With _you_ pitching? I don’t think so.”

Derek rolled his eyes and swiftly changed the subject. “When’s your book due?”

“The 23rd,” he said, with a little grimace. “I’ll make it, I’m pretty sure, but it’s always rough at the end. I kinda stop eating and sleeping. And…showering. Probably not the most fun person to spend time around.”

“You think _you’re_ going to be hard to live with? I’m gonna handle my stress worse than you handle yours, I promise,” Derek said, tangling his fingers in the hem of Stiles’ shirt.

“But you won’t do anything dumb like try to break up with me again, will you?” he asked, his eyes narrowed, and Derek winced.

“No. But I can’t promise that I’ll be pleasant.”

“So we’re both gonna be huge dicks,” Stiles surmised, and Derek snorted.

“Yeah, probably.”

Stiles lifted his eyebrows and shifted, swinging one leg over Derek’s lap to straddle him. “So are we gonna do a whole ‘no sex during the playoffs’ kinda deal? Do we need to get it all out of our systems right now?”

“Research shows it doesn’t really have an effect,” Derek mumbled against Stiles’ collarbone, and he sat back, laughing.

“ _Research_?”

“I looked into it,” he admitted, and Stiles laughed harder.

“Of course you did. So if it _did_ make a difference, we wouldn’t be having sex?”

“Nope,” Derek said, still kissing up Stiles’ neck. “It’s the playoffs.”

“Are you gonna grow a playoff beard?” he asked, rubbing his hand over Derek’s scruff. Derek turned into the touch and kissed his palm.

“Nah. That’s more of a hockey thing.”

“You’d look hot with the whole lumberjack look,” he said thoughtfully, and Derek considered that for a minute before Stiles’ lips were on his and he stopped thinking at all.

Derek debated standing up and hauling them into the bedroom, but he was so comfortable, Stiles such a pleasant weight on his thighs. He rearranged them instead so that he was flat on his back, keeping Stiles on top of him. Stiles deepened the kiss, bracing himself on one hand while he slid the other through Derek’s hair and tugged.

Derek lunged up into it and tried to press his hips up. He was thwarted, though, by Stiles’ weight on top of him, and he liked the feel of that—a _lot_ , it turned out, as he shivered and felt his dick thicken in his boxers. He groaned, and Stiles smirked against his lips as he pressed down even harder.

* * *

“We’re probably not gonna get the chance to do this a lot,” Stiles gasped, pushing back more forcefully. “I wanna feel it tomorrow.”

Derek’s eyes fell shut. “ _Fuck_ ,” he groaned, his hips snapping forward unconsciously. “Jesus Christ, Stiles.”

They’d made their way to the bedroom, finally, after an unfortunate fall from the perilously-small living room couch. Derek did really appreciate the comfort of a bed, as well as the space—he needed a lot of it to spread Stiles out, making him flail and thrash and almost come just from his fingers.

Kissing in this position was somewhat awkward, Stiles twisting his head back as they spooned, and Derek pulled out with a dissatisfied noise. Stiles cursed in response, wiggling a little as he tipped onto his back. Derek ran a soothing hand down his thigh and moved as fast as he could—which, in his current sex-drunk state, was not very fast—between Stiles’ legs.

He carefully slipped back inside, and Stiles exhaled in relief, wrapping his legs around him and tugging him down. “I’m not gonna, uh, last much longer,” Derek said, getting the words out between clumsy, enthusiastic presses to Stiles’ mouth. He tried to worm his hand between them, but Stiles batted it away with a huff and used his own hand instead.

Stiles came first a couple minutes later, his face twisted up in a glorious grimace, and Derek tried to gently fuck him through it. Stiles kept his legs wrapped around Derek but dropped his upper body back down onto the bed, spreading his arms and closing his eyes with the most sated, satisfied look on his face.

That, plus the little encouraging murmurs that Stiles was letting out, was plenty to send Derek over the edge. He buried himself deep and stayed there, burying his little moans into Stiles’ slack mouth as the pleasure sparked up his spine. Stiles laughed into the kiss and hooked one arm around Derek’s shoulders, holding on firmly to the nape of his neck.

Derek let himself enjoy the afterglow for just a second before he sat back carefully, knowing that Stiles got overly sensitive pretty much right after.

Once they were cleaned up, Stiles wrapped Derek up in his arms and pressed soft, tickling kisses against his hairline. “Can I tell you something?” he asked finally, and Derek squirmed out of his grip, rolling onto his back.

“Of course.”

“Like, it’s a sex thing.”

Derek couldn’t hold back the snort, and he twisted his head on the pillow to face Stiles. “Even better.”

“Shut up,” Stiles said, pushing at his shoulder.

“C’mon, tell me. Is it constructive criticism? Do we need to go over the tape?”

“Oh my god,” he said, letting his head loll back dramatically. “You’re such a dork.”

Derek laughed, always in a pleasant mood after sex, but when he opened his mouth to tease Stiles some more, he noticed that his cheeks were red. So this was probably something actually important. “Spit it out.”

“It’s not a _weird_ thing,” he started, then added quickly, “not that weird things are bad! Oh, god.”

Stiles tucked his face into Derek’s shoulder with a groan, and Derek bit his lip to stifle a laugh. “You can tell me. I won’t laugh, I promise.”

“Fine,” he said, with a huff. “So I…I kind of get off on the thought that you really want to have sex with me.”

Derek squinted as he looked up at the ceiling. He didn’t quite understand. “I _do_ really want to have sex with you,” he offered, and Stiles snorted.

“Yeah, I know that, but…okay, fine. I want you to have sex with me while I’m asleep,” he blurted out, the words running together in a rush. Derek blinked.

“While you’re asleep?”

“Just—just the beginning, I guess. Not like, fucking me, probably, but whatever you want. I’m kind of a heavy sleeper, and it would take me a few minutes to wake up, so…,” Stiles trailed off, his gaze going heavy, and he visibly swallowed. “Yeah.”

Stiles’ cheeks were flaming, and Derek doubted that his were much better. His gaze was steady, though, boring right into Derek. “And not all the time, obviously,” Stiles continued. “Just—I want to try it.”

“So you haven’t…,” Derek started, and Stiles shook his head, his pupils blown.

“No. I’ve always wanted to, though.”

Derek gulped. The mental images flashing through his mind were…overwhelming, to say the least. “Okay,” he said weakly.

“Okay?” Stiles said, his eyes widening. “Really?”

He shrugged, trying to look casual. “Of course.”

Stiles closed his eyes, exhaling with what looked like relief. “I was afraid you’d think it was weird. Or silly or whatever.”

“Uh, kind of the opposite. I’m hard again,” he admitted, and Stiles laughed delightedly, pushing up onto one arm and hooking a leg over Derek’s thighs.

“How convenient.”

* * *

Derek got to the ballpark that afternoon and found, unsurprisingly, his locker plastered with copies of the Under Armour ad. He sighed, ignoring the peals of laughter behind him, and started taking them down methodically. He could at least save them for Stiles, he’d surely be pleased.

The teasing was merciless but mostly good-natured, and Derek was able to escape it finally by seeking refuge in the training room. The trainer who worked on the mobility of his shoulder didn’t give a shit, thankfully, that he currently had a shirtless spread in Sports Illustrated.

He went through his typical two-days-before-a-start routine, trying to ignore the fact that the game he was prepping for was in fact the biggest of his career so far. The nerves were high all-around in the clubhouse, most guys acting like they couldn’t talk about the playoffs without fear of jinxing it. So Derek kept mostly to himself, talking a little bit with Boyd and Danny and accepting good luck wishes from the others.

He did his normal light leg workout and then some sprints on the field while other guys were taking batting practice. The goal was to get his blood pumping without tiring himself out, and it was mostly working. He’d never thrown so many innings in a year before, and it was a careful balance, he was learning, to keep his body healthy and not worn out. Everyone was suffering from various aches and pains by the time the playoffs rolled around, after six-plus months of the daily grind, but overall, he was feeling pretty good.

“Derek!”

He jerked his gaze up, dropping his arm from where he had been absentmindedly rotating his shoulder. Parker was waving at him from the top step of the dugout, and Derek swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat as he jogged over. Oh, right.

Derek knew he probably should have waited to tell him—they all had plenty to worry about already with the impending playoffs—but ever since Patty brought it up, he’d been excessively worried about being accidentally outed. And even though he didn’t think he was quite ready to come out yet, at the very least he could tell the GM. It made him feel like he was doing _something_.

Plus, he liked Parker—he’d been the one who Derek talked to the most before the Dodgers drafted him, and he didn’t have the slick way of talking and acting like a lot of other front office executives did. But just because he liked the guy didn’t mean that Derek wasn’t nervous as fuck about telling him this. He had sole authority on whether Derek was a Dodger or not, and he knew disclosing this was a risk. Sexual orientation was covered under the anti-discrimination policy, sure, but Derek wasn’t an idiot—the team could get around that somehow, if they wanted to.

“You ready for the big game?” Parker asked as he shook Derek’s hand firmly. He leaned against the railing outside the dugout, away from everyone else, and Derek mirrored his position, crossing his arms. He appreciated talking to Parker on his own turf, so to speak, instead of in his big office in the clubhouse. Derek had only been in there a couple times, but each time he’d always felt a bit like he’d been sent to the principal’s office.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, nodding. “Can’t wait.” Derek was in fact feeling fairly confident, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to play it up a bit.

“I think it’s going to be a good October this year,” Parker said, nodding toward the batting practice still continuing on the field in front of them. “And a lot of that credit goes to you. What a fantastic season you’re having, congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“So what’s going on, Derek?” he asked, smiling warmly at him from behind his sunglasses.

Derek swallowed again and rubbed his palms on his pants. “Something I wanted to tell you. Something that I’d like kept confidential.”

“Okay,” he said, his brow furrowing a bit as his face rearranged into something more serious. “Sure, go ahead.”

“I’m in a relationship with a man.”

Parker’s eyebrows lifted a bit, but to his credit, he didn’t show any surprise beyond that. He pressed his lips together for a few seconds before he spoke. “Professionally, I want to reiterate to you that the Dodgers organization supports its players whole-heartedly and is accepting of all orientations and identities. But personally, I am very glad that you felt comfortable enough to tell us. That means we’re doing something right,” he said, and Derek nodded jerkily. This was going better than he had anticipated. “Do guys on the team know?”

“A few.”

“And everyone has been supportive?”

Derek swallowed. “Mostly. It’s being handled internally.”

Parker gave him a little look, as if he knew exactly what _that_ meant, but Derek didn’t offer any more details. What happened in the locker room was the players’ business. He knew Parker would probably find out about Anderson, anyway—it didn’t seem like something that Patty would keep quiet about—but he didn’t really want to talk about that right now.

“We see you as an important part of the Dodgers’ future, Derek,” Parker said seriously, and Derek gave him another little nod. That was nice to hear, but it was pretty standard, boiler-plate talk and didn’t really mean anything. “In fact, this offseason, we were planning to talk to you about the viability of a long-term contract.”

Derek blinked. Once baseball players reached the majors, they were under their club’s control for the first six years, which many teams took advantage of by not paying them much above the major league salary minimum. Not that half a million a year was a bad deal, but in general, it was completely independent of performance. Only the real superstar players managed to snag a long-term deal during those years. Derek wanted to ask more about it, but he kept his mouth shut instead. He’d tell his agent, Jake, about it, and let him handle it.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” he said finally. “If it were up to me, I’d like to be a Dodger for a long time.”

“We’d like that, too,” he said, clapping Derek on the shoulder. “Are you planning to come out publicly?”

“Possibly,” he said, clenching his jaw. “I don’t know when.”

Parker nodded. “We hope you get the chance to come out on your own terms. If that happens, and whenever it does, you will of course have our full support.”

Derek exhaled, his shoulders slumping. “That’s—that’s good to know, thank you.”

“And if you want assistance with that, our PR and communications offices are always available to you, obviously.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Yeah, right.”

Parker patted his shoulder again and left his hand there, squeezing. “Beat the shit out of those Mets, okay?”

Derek grinned, showing his teeth. “Of course.”

* * *

It was more difficult than usual to find quiet space for his traditional ( _not_ superstitious) pre-game meditation. Derek finally found some, tucked into a spacious storage closet down by the batting cages, and while it smelled like baseballs and old sweat, he didn’t really care as long as it was quiet.

He sucked in a breath and let it out noisily through his mouth.

His first time in the playoffs, and he couldn’t believe that he was given the opportunity to start. He knew it was likely more coincidence than anything because of how the timing of the rotation worked out, but _still_. The entire season was riding on his shoulders. After the game tonight, they’d either be cleaning out their lockers and going home, saying goodbye to baseball until March, or packing for their trip to DC to play the Nationals in the first game of the Division Series.

No pressure.

It took a lot of effort, but Derek managed to zone out and calm down, reaching the zen-like focused mentality that he’d need to call on while he was pitching. He visualized the game going well—and how he would get it back on track if it _didn’t_ go well—and when he finally opened his eyes again, he felt far more centered.

He went about the rest of his pre-game routine trying to treat it like any other start, but it wasn’t the easiest task when there were reminders everywhere that it was the postseason—special logos painted on the field, patches affixed to the side of their hats, graphics on the damn _bases_. There was a sell-out crowd, of course, and an almost manic energy thrumming through the team.

When Derek jogged out for the first inning, the roar of the crowd was just about the loudest he’d ever heard it. He had support in the stands, he knew—Stiles, John, Erica, Laura, and his mom were all there—and of course, on the field.

He was jittery in the first inning and threw one right down the middle of the plate to the Mets’ best hitter, who promptly sent it into the left field stands. There was no one else on base, thankfully, and Derek rolled his shoulders while the guy made his slow trot around the bases.

Patty stood up, using signs to tell the defense how to position themselves for the next batter, and ended by wagging his finger at Derek. He nodded, knowing what he meant—that was just one bad pitch. Didn’t mean that there had to be more.

Derek narrowed his eyes as the next batter stepped into the box and took a deep breath as he started his windup.

* * *

Derek was pulled after eight innings, much to his chagrin, but he’d only given up that one run while the Dodgers offense had scored five. Their closer finished it off easily, and almost before he knew it, the whole team was running out onto the field to dogpile each other and celebrate the win.

There was the typical champagne-and-beer celebration in the locker room, but Derek only had about half a beer, not too intent on celebrating just yet. This was just one step, and they had a lot more to go if they were going to reach their ultimate goal.

He took care of his media obligations and spent a while in the trainers’ room. His arm was just about the sorest it’d ever been, no surprise there, and he needed to baby it so that it didn’t tip over into an injury over these pivotal next few weeks.

He dressed nicely in slacks and a button-down—though the whole look was somewhat ruined by the bag of ice wrapped around his shoulder—and headed out. His mom had organized a late dinner in a private room at a nearby restaurant, and Derek was glad it was going to be a congrats-you-did-it dinner instead of a well-we-still-love-you-anyway one.

Stiles’ eyes lit up when he walked in, and he jumped up from his seat, meeting Derek right by the door. “Hey,” he whispered, ducking in for a quick kiss. “Holy shit, Der, you were so good. That was amazing.”

“Thanks,” he whispered back. He hooked an arm around Stiles’ waist and drew him closer for a kiss that was lazier and slightly more thorough.

Laura and Erica were making exaggerated cooing and gagging noises, and Derek would have flipped them off behind Stiles’ back if his own mom and Stiles’ dad weren’t also there. He glared at them instead as he walked hand-in-hand with Stiles over to their table.

Derek was tired and quiet, more than happy to sit and wolf down his food while the conversation swirled around him. Stiles’ hand was a steady presence on his thigh, and Derek squeezed it. He was on a bit of a high from the game still, and he couldn’t quite believe that he could be _with_ Stiles, outside the comfort and privacy of their homes. It was a private room at a restaurant with only their family, sure, but still. It was surreal.

“How was your day?” he asked lowly. “Good progress?”

Stiles nodded, smiling. “Yeah, I’m on track. And I showered today, even.”

“Wow, look at you,” he said dryly, and Stiles grinned at him. “You don’t have to come to the other games, if you’re busy with the book.”

Stiles gave him a flat look. “Are you serious? Of _course_ I’m going be there. Hell, I’d go to DC if I could. What day will you guys be back in LA?”

“Monday.”

“And…,” Stiles said, his eyes scrunching in thought as he did the math, “you’ll be pitching that day, right?”

Derek nodded. “That’s the plan, anyway.”

“You couldn’t keep me away if you tried,” he promised, with that warm little smile that Derek loved, and he smiled helplessly back.

“You two really are _so_ gross,” Laura said frankly, and Stiles turned away from Derek to stuck his tongue out at her. She gasped, pretending to be offended, and Derek smiled down at his plate as he gripped Stiles’ hand tighter.

* * *

They lost the first two games of the Division Series.

Derek didn’t pitch in either of them, of course, but that didn’t make the losses any less awful. The first round of the playoffs was only a best-of-five series, which meant that if they lost Monday night—Derek’s start—they were done.

At least they were back in LA, after two games in DC, so he could spend a bit of time with Stiles. Ideally, he’d attempt to relax some, but neither of them were in a particularly calm mood.

Derek was stressed, practically wearing holes in the hardwoods as he walked and read scouting reports at the same time, too jittery to even sit down. Finally, Stiles turned away from his laptop, where he’d been muttering obscenities and punching at the keys, and glared at him. “Der. I love the shit out of you, but if I have to watch you pace around this room one more time, I’m going to throw a hissy fit. And no one needs to see that.”

Derek tilted his head. “I bet that would be pretty cute, actually.”

“Get. _Out_ ,” he stressed, and Derek lifted his hands in apology, retreating to the bedroom.

He was antsy as fuck, and he closed his eyes as he fell back on the bed with a sigh. Normally he worked out when he felt like this, but he shouldn’t now—his body was at the end of its rope already, and he needed to conserve as much energy as possible. He tried reading, thumbing through a random novel that Stiles had on his nightstand, but his attention kept straying.

Eventually Derek just pulled out his iPad again, watching the same film on the Nationals players that he’d pored over three times already.

He was trying to pick up something extra on their second baseman’s tendency to swing at the first pitch when Stiles came padding into the bedroom, his face drawn.

Derek dropped his head off the end of the bed and looked at him, upside down. He was wearing just a threadbare t-shirt and boxers, his hair messy and sticking up where he’d been running his hands through it, but Derek still thought he looked hot. “Hi.”

Stiles stepped forward and tangled their fingers together. “I’m sorry I’m being an asshole,” he said with a frown, and Derek reached out to curl his other arm around Stiles’ waist.

“It’s fine. And you’re not—at least, not any worse than me.” Stiles smirked at that and ducked down for an upside-down kiss. “Do you want me to leave?” he asked, but Stiles shook his head.

“No, I don’t. And you’d work yourself into a worse frenzy alone in your apartment, anyway,” he said, and Derek smiled. That was probably true. He’d probably become a little too dependent on Stiles’ steadying nature—recent days notwithstanding, of course—but he wasn’t going to worry about that right now. “Do you wanna do something?”

“Like what?”

Stiles shrugged. “We could go for a walk or something, there’s that park nearby. I could probably use a half an hour break.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “Yeah, actually that would probably be good.”

They ate lunch first, picking at Thai leftovers from their late dinner the night before, and took the time to put on proper clothes. As soon as they stepped outside, Derek immediately felt a little bit of his tension ease as he tipped his face toward the sun. It was a Sunday afternoon, but it was unseasonably cool for October, enough so that the park was mostly empty.

Not empty enough, though, for Derek to wrap his arm around Stiles like he wanted to, guarding against the chill. They were walking fairly close, their elbows brushing occasionally, and Derek was oddly fixated on it, explicitly aware of every time they touched. It was weird to be outside with Stiles, and it _bothered_ Derek that it felt so weird. They’d been together for months, and he still couldn’t hold his boyfriend’s hand outside. How fucking depressing was that?

“You okay?” Stiles asked, interrupting his thoughts, and Derek pasted on a smile.

“Yep. Sun feels good.”

Stiles snorted and opened his mouth to say something, but they were both distracted by a young girl skipping over to them, followed several steps behind by a slightly chagrined-looking dad.

Derek thought maybe she was a Dodgers fan, but she passed right by him, instead stopping in front of Stiles and smiling up at him. “Hello there,” he said, smiling warmly back at her.

“Hi,” she said shyly. “I really love your books.”

“Wow, thank you,” he said, looking pleasantly surprised. “You look a little young to be reading my books. How old are you?”

“Eleven,” she said, puffing up a little.

“We have to skip some of the scenes,” the dad chimed in, and the girl’s face fell.

“Yeah, Dad doesn’t let me read the really scary parts,” she said, and Stiles laughed.

“That’s probably a good idea. You can read those when you’re older.”

Derek felt a surge of ridiculously pointless jealousy as he watched the dad look Stiles over with open appreciation—apparently he was popular with the entire family.

“I have one of the books with me,” the girl said, digging through her dad’s messenger bag. “Could you sign it for me?”

“Of _course_ ,” Stiles said, taking it from her and pulling a pen from his jacket pocket. He crouched down on one knee, bracing the book on his other leg. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Leslie.”

“And who’s your favorite character, Leslie?” he asked, flipping the book open to the title page.

“Rebecca,” she said immediately. “She’s so smart and strong and super cool.”

Stiles laughed. “She _is_ super cool, I totally agree. She’s my favorite, too, you know.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he confirmed.

Stiles was good with kids, as Derek probably could have guessed. He stayed crouched down at Leslie’s level and listened intently to her, watching as she flipped through the pages and pointed out her favorite scenes.

The dad cleared his throat, and Derek guiltily snapped out of his reverie. “Sorry for this,” he said lowly. “We were reading it this morning, and she recognized him from the author picture. She was so excited.”

“Oh, it’s fine. Stiles loves talking to kids.”

Derek didn’t _know_ that, actually, not really, but he figured it was a safe assumption. Plus, it sent a little thrill down his spine to speak for Stiles, even in this small, completely inconsequential way.

Stiles hugged Leslie, and the dad shook his hand, then Derek’s. “Thanks for this. And good luck against the Nats tomorrow,” he added under his breath, flicking his gaze over to Stiles for a second before he looked back at Derek and winked.

Derek froze and somehow muttered a thank you, then waited until they were about 50 feet away before he said anything. “He knew, didn’t he.”

“Yep,” Stiles said, popping the _p_ as he stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked onto the balls of his feet. “He absolutely did.”

“I think we maybe aren’t so subtle,” Derek said, and Stiles laughed, his hand darting out to brush against Derek’s arm for a split second.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Let’s go back home.”

* * *

Derek took a swig of his beer and snorted as Danny and Isaac took part in some kind of complicated dance-off in the middle of the airplane aisle. Jackson was providing biting commentary, and Boyd was capturing everything on his phone, surely for possible blackmail purposes. All in all, the mood was high.

Not only had Derek won his start—handily, in fact, with eight strikeouts—but the Dodgers went on to win the next two games as well and won the series. It probably would have been sweeter to win at home, but none of them were complaining at the moment, not when they had a couple days off before they had to play the Cardinals in the next round.

“All right folks!” the flight attendant said over the intercom, his voice tinged with laughter. “We’re very happy for you, but we’re doing final prep for take off, which means seat belts fastened and phones in airplane mode.”

The clumps of guys broke up, everyone settling into their individual rows, and when Derek pulled out his phone to switch it off, he saw a text from Stiles.

**Stiles:** I’m going to sleep. We should celebrate when you get home. :)  
  
[](https://unsplash.com/search/bed?photo=RnR12I78SFo)

There was an attached picture of Derek’s rumpled bed, with the covers turned down, and he sucked in a breath. When Stiles had told him about his little sleeping fantasy, he mentioned that he liked the impression of it being a surprise, without talking about it explicitly beforehand. Derek had been slightly uncomfortable with the idea of just springing it on him randomly, so they’d compromised on a codeword. And there it was.

Derek tried to think about how he might go about this, but after just a minute he had to close his eyes and start replaying the game in his head instead, all to will away his sudden half-chub. Okay, so then he’d be working on the fly. Gametime decisions. No problem. He was good at those.

* * *

Derek stuck to only two beers on the plane, not wanting anything to impair his ability to drive home or to…do anything else. He had to drive home from the airport thinking about Stiles’ _dad_ the whole time, both as a reminder not to break any traffic laws and also as a deterrent to keep his erection at bay. It worked perfectly.

The apartment was quiet and dark when Derek got in, and he shut the door softly behind him. He stood in the stark light of the fridge and sucked down a glass of water, hoping that it would help calm him down. He dropped his bag off in the living room, forgotten, and tiptoed into the bedroom.

The blinds were open just a touch, letting enough light into the room that Derek could see comfortably. Beams from the streetlights striped the bed and perfectly spotlit Stiles, who was sound asleep, sprawled out on his stomach with the sheets pooled around his waist.

Derek unfastened his shirt buttons slowly, letting his gaze rove over Stiles. His broad, bare shoulders almost glowed in the soft light, and Derek traced the lines of his back with his eyes. He was just so unbelievably attractive, and Derek felt a thrill shoot all the way down his spine from merely staring at him like this, taking as much as he wanted with his eyes.

For as much as they had talked about forgoing a no-sex-during-the-playoffs rule, they had barely been together. Derek was stressed all the time, watching film and reading scouting reports constantly, and Stiles was buried in the world of his book, always either working on his laptop or writing random things down on an endless stream of post-it notes. It was a miracle if they managed to sleep in the same bed at roughly the same time.

Derek’s shirt dropped to the floor, not making a sound on the soft rug by the bed, and he tried to undo his belt with a minimum of noise. His pants joined his shirt, crumpled beyond Derek’s usual level of fastidiousness. He was almost completely hard now, just from the view and the anticipation, and he gingerly eased the waistband of his briefs down over the head of his dick.

Derek gently lifted the sheets, pulling them back, and had to bite his lip to keep a sound from escaping. Stiles was naked, which was somehow still surprisingly delightful even though Derek had been mostly expecting it. The room was warm enough, apparently, that Stiles didn’t wake up without the blanket, but Derek still shivered.

There was a bottle of lube sitting innocently on the nightstand, so Derek poured some into his hand, taking care to make sure the bottle didn’t squeak. He slicked himself, wincing at the shock of the cool lube against his warm skin, and took his hand off after just a few strokes. He was close enough already, and he really wanted to last more than 60 seconds once Stiles was actually awake.

He tilted his head as he thought for a minute and then carefully clambered onto the bed, resting his knees on either side of Stiles’ hips and being careful not to rest too much of his weight on top of him. The silence was ratcheting up the tension, and Derek exhaled as he oh-so-gently laid his hands on Stiles’ ass. He still didn’t stir, so Derek kept going, massaging lightly and using some more of the lube to slick up his skin. He tucked his dick into the crack of Stiles’ ass and shuddered. It was so soft and warm, sliding easily from the lube, and Derek started to thrust back and forth gently.

Stiles woke up with a start about a minute later, jerking in Derek’s grip. He immediately groaned, sounding surprised and needy and so, _so_ hot. “Derek,” he whined, his voice rough from sleep as he pushed his hips up into Derek’s hands. “Fuck, Derek, oh my god.”

Derek had to swallow twice before he could talk, and he rubbed a firm, soothing hand down Stiles’ back. “You okay?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he grunted, twisting his head on the pillow and thrashing under him. “Holy shit, please keep going.”

He moved his hands down to Stiles’ hips and held tightly, holding him in place down against the bed as Derek thrusted harder. The head of his dick kept bumping up against Stiles’ low back, his balls brushing against the soft skin of his ass, and it felt so fucking good. He’d originally chosen this position because he wasn’t sure what else to do, not without moving Stiles, but now he was praising his own ingenuity.

Stiles’ noises were getting louder and louder, and Derek eventually loosened his hold on his hips a bit, enough to sneak his hand underneath and grasp Stiles’ dick. He didn’t move it, though, just kept a tight grip and let Stiles thrust frantically against him, taking what he needed.

He was babbling into the pillow, too muffled for Derek to understand, and while one hand was clenched in the sheets, the other was twisting back frantically and blindly grasping at any part of Derek’s skin he could reach. He finally landed on his thigh and stayed there, his nails digging in as the muscles in his forearm clenched. Derek gritted his teeth, trying to hold off and let Stiles come first.

Finally, right when Derek thought he couldn’t take it anymore, Stiles let out a broken sob into the pillow and shuddered as he came, an intense, full-bodied movement that nearly dislodged Derek on top of him. Watching him was the last straw, and Derek used the hand now covered in Stiles’ come to jack himself off quickly, spilling all over Stiles’ low back after just a handful of strokes.

Stiles was still twitching a little, and Derek laid a steadying hand on his shoulder while he sucked in air and waited for his legs to stop shaking. Stiles groaned, fisting his hands in the pillow, and Derek slid his hand up to card through his hair.

“Shhh,” he soothed, bending down to swipe his undershirt off the ground. He carefully cleaned Stiles’ back and then climbed off of him, wincing as his knees creaked in protest. He collapsed down next to Stiles and pushed at his shoulder, trying to see his face.

Stiles obeyed and twisted, rolling on his side a little so he could see Derek, mostly braced against his body. His eyes were huge and a little damp, his hair sticking up in a million directions, and he looked so thoroughly well-fucked that Derek wished for a second that he had the magical refractory period of a 17-year-old.

“Was that okay?” he asked quietly, and Stiles let out a little breathless noise.

“Holy _shit_ , that was…even better than I thought it would be,” he said, burying his face into Derek’s neck. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Real hardship.”

Stiles smacked him weakly on the chest and then left his hand there, scratching through Derek’s chest hair. “I’m serious.”

“Me too. Thanks for trusting me.”

He murmured something in response and readjusted his weight with a sigh. “Congrats on the win. That was great.”

“Yeah. Pretty good _celebration_.”

Stiles huffed, but Derek could feel the curve of his smile against his neck.

* * *

The Dodgers lost the best-of-seven Championship Series against the Cardinals, two games to four.

The only two games they won were Derek’s starts, games one and five, which was nice in theory but didn’t really mean shit if they weren’t going to the World Series. The entire offense seemed to hit some kind of simultaneous slump, and even though the other pitchers also did fairly well, their lineup could barely muster up any runs. Game six was in St. Louis, and it was a new particular form of torture to watch as the Cardinals leapt around the field in celebration, the crowd roaring and fireworks shooting off in front of the Arch.

It was the quietest, fastest post-game Derek had ever been a part of, everyone clearly in a hurry to get away from Cardinal territory and the faint celebrations they could still hear in the locker room. Derek was able to avoid the media, thank god, since he hadn’t pitched, and he sat in front of his locker while he waited, texting Stiles.

**Stiles:** Oh shit, Der, I’m so sorry.  
  
**Stiles:** Please come over when you get back to LA.  
  
**Stiles:** Or I can go to your place.  
  
**Stiles:** You can be as grumpy as you want.  
  
**Stiles:** I love you.  
  
**Derek:** Thanks. We’re about to leave for the airport. I’ll come over to your place.  
  
**Derek:** Do you have ice cream?  
  
**Stiles:** *thumbs up*

The plane ride was nearly silent, everyone hidden under their hat brims with their headphones in, but oddly, instead of each guy in his own row like normal, they sat far more clustered together. Derek found himself sharing a row with Boyd, and as he looked around, most of the others were in the same boat. Apparently everyone wanted the camaraderie, even if no one was eager to actually talk about it.

Once they landed back in LA, most of the players lingered in the airport parking lot far longer than usual, chatting idly about nothing in particular and fiddling with their car keys. They’d all see each other at the stadium over the next few days as they cleaned out their lockers, but this was the last time they’d officially be together as a team and it seemed to be sinking in for everyone.

Finally guys started peeling off, and Derek joined in, eager to get home and see Stiles. The highway was cluttered with cars, as it always was in LA even at the wee hours of the morning, and Derek shook his head—hard to believe that the rest of the world was just going on as normal.

Stiles must have heard his car in the driveway because as soon as Derek let himself in with his key, he was being wrapped up in a hug. Derek sagged a little into his strong grip and pressed his face into Stiles’ neck, squeezing his eyes shut tight.

Stiles kissed his cheek before he pulled back, giving Derek a tiny smile. “No dress code tonight?”

Derek shook his head, looking down at his sweatpants. “We got a special reprieve.”

Stiles nodded, taking Derek’s bag from him and ushering him inside. “Are you tired?” he asked, and Derek shook his head again. He’d slept a little on the plane, fitfully, but now he just felt depressed, not tired.

“Are you?”

“Nah, my schedule’s a little off right now, anyway. I napped earlier.”

“So…you said something about ice cream?” Derek asked, and Stiles’ eyes brightened. He dragged Derek by the elbow into the kitchen and opened the freezer with a dramatic flourish,  revealing about a dozen different pints of Ben & Jerry’s.

“I got a bunch, since I wasn’t sure what kind you wanted,” he explained, and Derek couldn’t hold back a small smile. “I also have whipped cream and chocolate sauce.”

“Kinky,” Derek murmured, and Stiles laughed.

“Oh, you don’t wanna mess around with whipped cream. Believe me.” Derek quirked an eyebrow at him, but Stiles just waved his hand, blushing. “Misguided, drunken incident. Don’t ask.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said, tilting his head and carefully selecting the pint of Half Baked.

“You want a bowl?” Stiles asked, but Derek just gave him a disdainful look as he rummaged through the utensil drawer for a big spoon.

“Not necessary. Bring the chocolate sauce, though.”

SportsCenter was still on the TV in the living room, on mute, and Stiles quickly changed the channel, flipping until he landed on a rerun of Friends. “Will you watch the World Series?” he asked, and Derek grimaced, forcibly sticking his spoon into the ice cream.

“Probably not,” he said, around a delicious chocolatey bite. He didn’t indulge very often during the season, and he was going to enjoy this with gusto. “It’ll just make me too angry.”

“Are you angry now?” Stiles asked. He opened his mouth wide, and Derek obediently fed him a spoonful of ice cream.

“I don’t feel anything,” he said finally. “I just feel…empty.”

“Would a blow job help?” he asked, and Derek actually grimaced at the thought.

“Sorry,” he said immediately, chagrined, but Stiles just laughed and pressed another kiss to his cheek.

“I just don’t know how to make you feel better,” he whispered, and Derek shrugged.

“I don’t know, either. I’ve never made it to the playoffs before.”

“Do you want me to cheer you up, or do you just want some commiserating wallowing?”

Derek bit his lip. “What would you say if you tried to cheer me up?” he asked, and Stiles laughed. He wriggled so that he was laying on his back, his head in Derek’s lap.

“Well, I’d start off by telling you that you were a fucking beast. If there was a playoff MVP, it’d definitely be you.”

Derek smiled as he took another bite. “Thanks. That doesn’t really matter, though.”

“Matters to me,” he said, nosing under Derek’s shirt and pressing a kiss to the soft skin right above his waistband.

“That tickles,” he complained, squirming away, and Stiles grinned up at him.

“And then I’d tell you that in just a few weeks, we’re going to be on _vacation_ ,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows, and Derek smiled. After much discussion, and a very thorough pro-and-con list produced, of course, by Stiles, they’d finally decided on Hawaii for their vacation.

“That’s true. That’ll be fun.”

“ _Fun?_ ” Stiles said with a scoff. “It’s gonna be fucking awesome.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, giving Stiles another bite of ice cream. He certainly would have liked to play for a couple more weeks, but he was looking forward to the offseason in general. Some time off of baseball would be nice, if unbelievably weird at first, and he knew Stiles would get a little break, too, after turning in his book. “So what’re we gonna do in Hawaii?”

Stiles hummed, the noise vibrating pleasantly against Derek’s stomach. “ _Relax_ ,” he said, stretching out the word. “Swim, surf—can you surf? Is that allowed?”

Derek snorted. They’d originally talked about going skiing instead, until Derek had remembered that skiing was included in the list of “dangerous sports” that he was prohibited from partaking in, according to his contract. “I think I could surf.”

“Have sex a lot. Obviously. On the beach?” Stiles said, then grimaced as he appeared to second-guess himself. “Yuck, sand. Maybe not. That sounds uncomfortable.”

Derek laughed. “Are you going to tell me anything about where we’re staying?”

“Nope,” he said, sounding way too proud of himself. They’d decided on their budget and the things that were important to them—basically, privacy and easy access to a beach—but Stiles had taken on the responsibility of actually choosing a place to stay. And so far he’d given Derek exactly zero details. He didn’t even know which island they were going to. “It’s gonna be a surprise.”

“Okay,” Derek said easily, taking another bite. “I trust you.”


	11. November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some housekeeping notes: in case you missed it, I posted chapter 10 early, last Thursday. So go read that if you haven't yet! 
> 
> AND I'm posting the last two chapters at the same time. Enjoy. :)

“Fuck,” Stiles seethed, running a hand through his hair. He left it there, on top of his head, and exhaled harshly, his eyes squeezed shut. Derek looked up from his phone and frowned at him.

“What?” he asked, and Stiles glared at him.

“I’m pissed! We missed our flight and we have three _fucking_ hours to kill. Now it’s gonna be _late_ by the time we finally get there, and we won’t have any time to do anything.”

Stiles ended his little rant with a huff, and Derek sighed. Their flight to Honolulu was delayed, and as a consequence they missed their connecting flight to Kauai. Derek only _knew_ they were going to Kauai because he shamelessly used his strength over Stiles to steal their boarding passes from him while they were in the car on the way to LAX.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Derek said, tugging Stiles by the sleeve down to the cluster of seats that they’d commandeered in the corner of the airport near their gate. “At least they had seats on the next flight. We don’t have to spend the night here or anything.”

“I know,” he said, deflating as he slumped into one of the chairs. “I’m just grumpy. And feeling _guilty_ for feeling grumpy because we're on vacation. You shouldn't see me grumpy, anyway.”

Derek snorted. “And why not?”

“Because,” Stiles said, his voice muffled from where his hands were folded over his face. “It’s still early in our relationship. I’m supposed to be faultless.”

Derek laughed for a second, until he realized that Stiles appeared to actually be serious. “Wait, really?”

“I mean—kinda,” he said, with a shrug that seemed like it was trying too hard to look casual. “I don’t know, I’m just in a weird mood right now.”

“Well, I almost broke up with you a while ago because I had a bad game, so…I’m not exactly on my high horse here.”

Stiles dropped his hands and gave him a squinty look. “Oh, right. You’re pretty flawed, too.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Be grumpy,” he said. He'd prefer to kiss Stiles, or at least wrap an arm around his shoulders, but he settled for bumping their knees together. “My love for you isn’t conditional on you being in a perfect mood all the time. Promise. That’s not what relationships are about.”

“I know,” he said with a sigh, cracking his neck. “Since when did you get all _wise_ about relationships?”

“I’m trying out that whole high horse thing. It’s a nice view from up here.”

“Oh, shut up,” Stiles said, shoving at Derek’s shoulder. He was laughing, though, so Derek must have made a little progress at cheering him up. “Dick.”

“You love me even when I’m a dick,” he countered, and Stiles acquiesced with a little head bob.

“True.”

“What's up with you, anyway? You've been antsy ever since we left this morning.”

“Nervous about the book,” he admitted finally. “I won’t complain about the others being successful, but that just puts more pressure on this one, you know? And I normally get more time in between, but now I have to start worrying about the whole _movie thing_ , which I’ve barely even started thinking about.”

Derek dared to reach out and lay his hand on Stiles’ knee for a second, squeezing. “Everything’s gonna be fine. I promise.” He grimaced. _That_ was just about the most trite, useless advice of all time, but Stiles was gnawing at his thumbnail and didn’t appear to be listening to him, anyway.

“I mean, what if the new book is total shit?”

“It was _not_ shit,” Derek said. He could say that with confidence because after a not-inconsequential amount of begging, Stiles had finally let him read the final draft. “Not that my opinion is—”

“Your opinion is very important, stop it,” Stiles said, touching his hand for just a second. “This happened after I turned in the other books, too. Just, you know, plagued with crippling self-doubt for a little while. Totes normal.”

“I’m sorry. You want a Xanax?”

Stiles made a face. “No. I’m just stressed, not panicking.”

“Then how ‘bout a beer? There’s gotta be a bar in here somewhere.”

“ _Yes_ ,” he said gratefully. “Let’s do that. I need to get into the vacation mood.”

Derek’s phone started buzzing against his thigh, and he lifted his hips to slide it out of his pocket. “This is Laura, I should take it,” he said. “You wanna go find a place and I’ll catch up?”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll text you,” Stiles said, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder. He looked around before making a kissy face, and Derek snorted. He watched Stiles walk away until he lost him in the crowd, then found a place to sit in the corner, leaning against the window ledge.

His phone had stopped ringing by then, so he thumbed to Laura’s name and called her back.

“Hey, bro,” she answered immediately.

“Hey, sorry I missed you. What’s up?”

“Just wanted to talk to the lovebirds before you descend into some sort of weird sex haze for the next week.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “It won’t be a _weird_ sex haze. Are you saying that you want details?” he asked sweetly, and she let out a little screech. He smirked.

“Gross. Did you ever find out where you’re going?”

“Yeah, Kauai,” he said, and she made an appreciative noise.

“Nice. So...when're you gonna come out?”

Derek gritted his teeth, his relaxation slowly slipping away. “Jesus Christ, Laura. I don't know. The season _just_ ended. Give me a little time.”

“Have you and Stiles talked about it?”

He sighed and considered the idea of lying to her before almost immediately dismissed it. “No,” he admitted. “We haven’t.”

Laura hummed. Derek waited for her to say something else, but the other side of the phone was quiet.

“What?” he finally asked, irritable. “What does that _hmm_ mean?”

“It's nice. That he's not pressuring you.”

Derek sighed. Talking about him coming out was their elephant in the room. Stiles knew that Derek had told the front office, that the Dodgers had a plan in place that would go into effect if— _when—_ he came out. But they hadn’t really discussed anything beyond that. Stiles had no idea how stressed and conflicted Derek was feeling about it. Well, he probably did because he was a smart guy. But they certainly weren’t talking about it.

“I know,” he said finally. “No one is.”

“Do you _want_ someone to pressure you?” she asked, as shrewd as ever, and Derek sighed again.

“No, I’m just—I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you want to talk to him about it?”

Derek shrugged, forgetting that she couldn’t see him. “I’m afraid that he’ll be disappointed in me. That I’m not ready to just…to just _do it_ already. That he’ll think it’s because I’m ashamed of him or something.”

Laura made a disapproving noise. “I’m sure he’s not thinking about it like that. You should talk to him.”

“I know,” he said, mulish and whiny like he only got when talking to his older sister. “But he’s…he’s stressed with his own stuff. I don’t want to bother him.”

“You guys are on _vacation_. You have literally nothing to do besides have sex and talk to each other.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we’ll just spend a lot of time having sex,” he said flippantly, and she groaned.

“Okay, I’m hanging up now before you start waxing poetic about his dick or whatever.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“You can call me anytime, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, closing his eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

“Love you, baby bro.”

For once, he chose not to object to her choice of _baby_ instead of _younger_. “Love you, too.”

* * *

After two beers, Stiles seemed a fair bit more relaxed by the time they got on the plane for the short flight over to Kauai. Derek was, too, after he managed to successfully push Laura’s words out of his head, and especially after Stiles laid his hoodie across their laps and held his hand for the entire flight.

The Lihue airport was tiny, probably fewer than 10 gates, and as they walked out, they passed many people receiving leis from workers in airport uniforms. “So how many _getting lei’d_ jokes do you think they hear?” Stiles asked under his breath, and Derek snorted.

“Way too many, I’m sure.”

“Sorry I didn’t get you a lei,” he said, brushing their hands together for just a second, and Derek grinned.

“I mean, I’d rather just get laid.”

Stiles rolled his eyes theatrically. “That was awful, I’m embarrassed to even be seen with you.”

“ _Liar_ ,” Derek said in a sing-song voice, and Stiles smirked. There was a collection of bored-looking drivers holding signs in the baggage claim area, and Derek scanned his eyes for either of their names. “Are we getting picked up?”

“Nope,” Stiles said, looking up at the airport signs before he strode off across the street toward what looked like the collection of rental car kiosks. Derek followed at a far more leisurely pace and hung back as Stiles talked to a young Hawaiian woman at the Hertz desk.

After only one wrong turn, they found their black Jetta and tossed their bags in the backseat. “Do you know where you’re going?” Derek asked, a little impressed as Stiles made a confident left turn out of the rental car complex.

“Yep, memorized the directions.”

“So you’re still not gonna tell me where our hotel is,” he guessed, and Stiles snorted.

“You got it,” he said, leaning forward to peer at a road sign.

Derek sighed and settled into the passenger seat to enjoy the scenery. Even though it was mostly dark outside, just past twilight, he could make out the lush greenery and the dark lumps on the horizon that he assumed were mountains. It was pretty, that was for sure.

Stiles had to pull over once at the sound of sirens—like a good Sheriff’s son—and they waited as a black Camaro flew past with its lights flashing. “Aw, does that make you miss your car?” he asked as he pulled back into traffic, and Derek laughed.

“I’ve definitely never driven mine that fast.”

They drove for maybe half an hour or so before Stiles turned onto an increasingly smaller and windier set of roads. They stopped at a gate, and before Derek could ask if they were lost, Stiles was rolling down the window and entering a code into the keypad.

The gate slid open, and Derek’s eyebrows lifted right along with it. “Where the hell _are_ we?” he asked, craning his neck to look at the giant houses that they were passing.

“Going to our _hotel_ ,” Stiles said, one corner of his mouth quirking up.

“So it’s not a hotel,” Derek said flatly, and Stiles laughed.

“Yeah, not so much.”

Stiles leaned over Derek to check the house number, then pulled into a long gravel driveway. He shifted the car into park, and Derek’s jaw dropped. “Holy shit, you got us a house.”

“Just for the week, unfortunately,” he said as he unfolded himself from the seat, stretching. “Nice, huh?”

Derek shook his head, a little dumbfounded. _Nice_ was an understatement. The house wasn’t huge but it was modern and clearly upscale, clean lines with stone and lots of wood, and from the faint crashing sound he could hear, he was guessing that the ocean was just on the other side. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

“Let’s go in,” Stiles said, his voice muffled as he ducked into the backseat. “I wanna see if it lives up to the pictures.”

Derek snorted as soon as they stepped inside. “I’d fucking say so.”

The house was low-slung, long and narrow to embrace the oceanfront aspect as much as possible. The floor plan was open, with a spacious kitchen separated from the living room by a narrow island. The furnishings were elegant but simple, allowing the main feature to be the entire wall of windows that overlooked the ocean.

“This is awesome,” Stiles said, laughing as he dropped his bags behind the comfy-looking sectional and fiddled with the French doors that led outside.

_Deck_ was too pedestrian-sounding for the outdoor area, with its stone floors, over-stuffed armchairs, shiny grill, and— “Holy shit, there’s a _pool_ ,” Derek blurted out.

“You know, for when we get tired of the ocean,” Stiles said flippantly, and Derek laughed.

“This is unbelievable.”

“So I did good?”

“Yeah,” Derek said, raising his voice a little to be heard over the waves, which were crashing on their narrow strip of beach just down a small hill from the house. “Yeah, you did great.”

“Good,” Stiles murmured. He stepped closer to Derek and drew him into a lazy kiss. He leaned back after a minute, but Derek hooked an arm around his waist and pulled him back in. Stiles laughed into the kiss and draped his arms over Derek’s shoulders.

“You wanna go check out the upstairs?” he asked, after he finally let Stiles go. They traipsed up the dark metal stairs and poked their heads into a couple rooms before they stumbled on the master bedroom.

“Yep,” Stiles said with a low whistle. “This is pretty sweet.”

Derek had to agree. There was a big, offensively fluffy bed that faced, what else, a wide swath of windows that showed off what was surely an amazing view. He stepped out onto the long attached patio and took a deep breath, smiling faintly as he inhaled the beachy air.

Stiles came up behind him, caging him in against the railing. “I’m sorry it’s dark,” he said. He sounded a little disappointed as he dropped a kiss on the back of Derek’s neck. “I wish you could see the view.”

“I like what I _can_ see,” he said, turning around to leer at Stiles, who rolled his eyes with a little huff. “And we’ll see the rest tomorrow.”

Derek dropped to his knees in one quick motion and tugged playfully at Stiles’ waistband.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked, laughing. He shifted back to give Derek a bit more room, though, and slid his fingers into his hair.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he asked, undoing the button on Stiles’ jeans and pulling down the zipper.

“But I’ve been traveling all day,” Stiles said, the protest sounding weak as his grip tightened on Derek’s hair. “I probably smell like airplane.”

“Don’t care. We have to kick off our vacation somehow.”

“With blow jobs,” he said, his voice sliding into a higher pitch as Derek mouthed at the cotton-covered bulge that was steadily getting bigger under his attentions. “I approve of this plan.”

“And as a thank you for finding this house. And to help you relax.”

“You expect me to _relax_?” he asked. He sucked in a breath when Derek tugged his boxers down and took the head of his dick into his mouth.

“Uh-huh,” he pulled off to say after a minute, sliding his hand over the spit-slick skin. “Just look at the ocean and relax.”

“I’d rather look at you,” he said as he pushed Derek’s hair back off his forehead. “You’re prettier than the ocean.”

“Shut up,” he mumbled, and Stiles laughed. His laugh twisted off into a moan when Derek got back to work, and not too much longer after that, he was clutching at Derek’s shoulders and leaning over as he came.

Panting, Stiles held onto the railing with one hand while he half-hearted tugged up his boxers with the other. Derek stood up, grimacing as the motion pulled at his mostly-numb knees, and Stiles grabbed his hand.

“Your turn,” he said, still flatteringly out of breath as he pushed Derek down onto one of the cushy outdoor chaises and clambered on top of him, kissing him with unbridled enthusiasm.

Derek smiled as he held Stiles’ head in his hands and slowed it down a little. Stiles pulled away after one last biting suck to his lower lip. “Take off your shirt,” he mumbled against the skin of Derek’s neck, before biting down hard enough to make Derek’s dick twitch in his pants. He obeyed, trying to tug it off without dislodging Stiles. It wasn’t that cold outside, maybe 70 and breezy, but Derek shivered anyway, more so when Stiles ran a hand over his stomach with a light touch.

He paid copious attention to Derek’s nipples, biting and sucking gently and going back and forth until Derek was shamelessly thrusting up against him. “Come on,” he muttered, and Stiles laughed, finally letting go with one last lick. He moved back in between Derek’s legs and proceeded to thoroughly return the favor, faster and sloppier than he usually was.

Whatever it was, it worked for Derek, and he came with a shuddering rush, his knees twitching against Stiles’ sides.

Stiles tucked him carefully back into his boxers and clambered up his body, collapsing on top of him. Derek let out a little _oof_ and rearranged him so that none of his vital organs were getting crushed.

“Happy vacation,” Stiles said, his voice hoarse, and Derek kissed the top of his head.

“Happy vacation, indeed.”

* * *

Derek woke up with a jerk at the sound of Stiles’ plaintive cry.

“What?” he asked, without opening his eyes. The bed was empty, he could tell, and he was grumpy that he had to wake up without Stiles’ weight on top of him. He cleared his throat. “Why aren’t you in bed? Why are you making noise?”

A dramatic sigh came from somewhere near the wall of windows. “Because it’s _raining_.”

Derek finally pried his eyes open, blinking a few times until he could focus on Stiles’ naked form, plastered against the floor-to-ceiling window. Sure enough, it was overcast and dreary, buckets of rain dumping down. Stiles’ pouty face was cute, though, when he turned to look at him over his shoulder, and Derek held out an arm, wiggling his fingers. “Come back. I’m cold.”

“You’re such a cuddle hog,” Stiles said, but he turned away from the window, jumping on Derek’s legs before he wormed his way under the covers again and wrapped his arms around Derek’s back.

“Your insults don’t bother me,” Derek mumbled. His eyes were already closed again as he burrowed into Stiles’ warmth. He’d always found the sound of rain soothing, and he listened to the  staccato splatter against the windows as he tried to sink back into his drifty haze.

“It’s raining,” Stiles said again, fidgeting. Derek sighed—he clearly wasn’t going back to sleep anytime soon.

“I can see that. Did you check the forecast?”

Stiles groaned, a rumbling noise that Derek could feel vibrate between their bodies. “Yeah. It’s supposed to rain all day, but that’s it. Looks clear for the rest of the week.”

“Good. Glad we spent so much time outside yesterday, then,” he said, and Stiles hummed happily.

They’d spent most of their first full day exploring the property and spending time on the beach. The house came with a whole shed full of equipment for every possible water sport, including surfboards, but their little beach didn’t have any real waves. The paddle boards were fun, though, especially when Derek learned that his sense of balance was far better than Stiles’.

Thoughts of sand had killed any real desire for sex on the beach, but the house had a gorgeous outdoor shower—complete with a rugged stone wall, rain shower head, and a canopy of greenery overheard—that had served their purposes nicely. Stiles had a bit of a thing for having sex outside, it turned out, and Derek didn’t really care either way as long as no one could see them.

“What do you want to do now?” Stiles said lowly, walking his fingers up the bare skin of Derek’s chest.

Derek opened his mouth to make a salacious suggestion, but he was cut off by Stiles’ stomach grumbling, loudly. He laughed instead, and Stiles groaned, pressing his face into Derek’s shoulder.

“We’re having breakfast, clearly,” Derek said. “Come on.”

He climbed out of bed, neatly rolling out of the way of Stiles’ grabby hands. He pulled on boxers and after a little deliberation, a thin long-sleeved t-shirt—it felt like the rain had dropped the temperature in the house.

The bottom floor had so many windows that it almost felt like they were _in_ the rainstorm, and Derek avoided turning on any lights. He liked the soft, gray light of the storm—although they obviously came to Hawaii for a beachy, sunny vacation, he couldn’t deny the coziness of being shut up inside the house with Stiles.

Stiles, who came into the kitchen a minute later with an adorably disgruntled look on his face. “Can’t believe my stomach cockblocked me like that,” he muttered, and Derek gave his ass a little slap as he reached up for the coffee mugs. He squeaked in surprise and fell against the cabinet. “Don’t treat me like we’re in a locker room.”

“Believe me, I don’t,” he said with a snort as he dug in the fridge for the yogurt. Stiles had arranged for the house to be stocked with food, stuff for simple meals or that they could toss on the grill, and it was incredibly convenient.

Stiles slid a bowl in front of him, and Derek handed over the yogurt when he was done, accepting the offered box of granola in return. Stiles poured each of them a cup of coffee while Derek sliced a banana into both of their bowls, and they ate in relative silence, leaning against the island and watching the sheets of rain pass over the ocean.

“What do you wanna do today? Since we’re house-bound, apparently.”

“Have sex,” he declared, and Stiles laughed.

“I sorta figured that would be on the agenda. Any special requests?”

Derek waited until Stiles took a bite of his yogurt before he spoke. “Yeah, I want you to fuck me.”

Stiles promptly choked, spraying a few drops of yogurt onto the island, and Derek smirked a little as he reached for a paper towel to wipe it up.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Stiles asked, after coughing a few times, and Derek shrugged. “Well, that…that kinda came out of nowhere.”

Frowning, Derek immediately went on the defensive. “What the hell does that mean? Do you not want to?”

Stiles lifted his eyebrows at the aggressive tone, and Derek deflated. He was a little nervous about this, sue him.

“ _No_ ,” Stiles said, exaggeratedly slow. “That’s not what I said. I was just making an observation. You haven’t brought it up as something that you wanted to do.”

“Not _explicitly_ , maybe,” Derek admitted. He’d definitely thought about it, though. “But I am now.”

“So you want to,” he repeated—sometimes the mention of sex made Stiles think a little slow—and Derek shrugged again.

“I wanna try. Won’t know unless I give it a shot.”

“Wow, way to be enthusiastic,” he said, laughing, and Derek flicked a piece of granola at him. Stiles just plucked it off his shirt and popped it into his mouth.

“Very funny.”

“You know you don’t have to, though, right?” Stiles asked, his voice sobering into a more serious tone.

“Yeah, I know,” he said lightly, paying more attention than necessary to scraping down the side of his bowl. “But I want to. Do you?”

Stiles’ eyes widened, and Derek tensed. Stiles had told him a while ago that he went both ways, but he wasn’t sure how true that was. Maybe only with certain people?

“ _Yes_ ,” Stiles said, though, his face almost painfully earnest. “Fuck yes. _Si_. _Oui_. I would say it in other languages if I knew any more.”

Derek laughed as some of the tension seeped out of his shoulders. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

Derek was ready to just go ahead and get going, but Stiles made him _wait_ for it, like the dick that he was. _I’m not in the mood yet_ , yeah right. Kinda hard to believe that one, not with the smug grin plastered on Stiles’ face like he knew exactly what he was doing.

So he waited, while they finished breakfast and while they read the newspaper and did the crossword and while they even played a game of Scrabble, of all fucking things, with Derek getting antsier all the while.

Until Stiles finally stretched his arms over his head and said, all nonchalant-like, “I _guess_ I can fuck you now. Like, if you want.”

Derek practically carried him up the stairs— _practically_ being the key word there because he wasn’t interested in breaking any bones when he was so close to ending this blessed torture—and tossed him on the bed, where he landed with a bounce, laughing. “Okay, okay,” Stiles said, stretching luxuriously with a lazy grin. “I believe that you want to.”

Derek snorted, straddling Stiles’ body on his knees and tugging his shirt off his head. “I’m not sure I believe that _you_ want to.”

Somehow, Stiles got the drop on Derek and managed to sweep his legs out from underneath him, twisting him and tackling him down, stomach-first, onto the bed.

There was rustling, then Stiles’ weight was on top of him, pressing him down. “Are you fucking serious right now?” he said, his voice already hoarse. “I’ve been hard for like, three hours. I’m pretty sure my dick is gonna fall off.”

Derek closed his eyes, shuddering a little as Stiles’ dick, bare now, rubbed against his ass through his boxers. “Then _why_ ,” he gritted out, “did you wait so goddamn long?”

“I wanted to give you time to back out.”

“I’m not going to,” he insisted, thrusting up against Stiles’ weight as much as he could in this position. “Come on, please.”

“Oh, Jesus fuck,” Stiles gasped, pressing Derek down with a firm hand on the small of his back. He quickly stripped off the boxers and tossed them away. “Just—just stay there. Don’t move.”

Derek heard the snap of the lube bottle, and then Stiles’ cool, slick fingers were nudging at him.

It wasn’t as weird as Derek had been expecting. Well, _weird_ wasn’t the right word, probably, but it was less of a shock than he had thought. It wasn’t unusual for Stiles to use a finger or two during a blow job, and Derek certainly enjoyed it, but it seemed different when it was just a step along the way and not the main event.

Stiles worked up to three fingers, working them in and out slowly and _twisting_ , god, until Derek was writhing, pretty sure he was gonna die before Stiles’ dick was even in him.

“I’m ready,” he snapped, a little irritated, but Stiles just laughed. He pulled out, and just when Derek relaxed with the knowledge that it was _finally_ happening, Stiles’ fingers were sliding back in, gliding easily with a fresh coat of lube.

Derek groaned, and Stiles laughed again. He made a mental note to _ruin_ Stiles the next time they did this the other way. “Just trust me, okay?”

“I do trust you,” Derek said mulishly, mostly into the pillow. “I’d trust you more if you actually _fucked me_ sometime today.”

“All right, fine,” he said, slipping his fingers out with a little crook that made Derek keen. “You wanna stay like that?”

Derek shook his head and flipped onto his back, spreading his legs around Stiles. “Do it this way.”

“You sure?” Stiles asked, tilting his head in question even as his eyes widened. “It can be kinda uncomfortable to hold that position.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “You’re gonna wanna take back all those times you made fun of me for doing yoga.”

“Okay,” Stiles said as he stuffed a pillow under Derek’s ass, his voice mostly a squeak.

Stiles hitched Derek’s legs up and around him, put on a condom—“just trust me, Derek”—and dear-god-finally just slid on in. He froze about halfway, and Derek did, too, his body trying to figure out how react to the foreign feeling.

“Are—are you okay?” Stiles asked, biting his lip with what looked like pain, if Derek didn’t know any better.

It felt _weird_ , weird as fuck, but he couldn’t imagine anything really hurting, not with the truly-copious amount of lube that Stiles had used. There was pressure, sure, but it wasn’t unpleasant, instead just on the edge of uncomfortable.

“Yes,” he said finally. “You can, uh, keep going.”

Stiles slid all the way in with one smooth motion, as if he was just waiting for the cute, and holy _fuck_ , it felt like Stiles was in his fucking throat. He sucked in a breath desperately and Stiles matched it, his fingers clenching and unclenching in the sheets next to Derek’s shoulders and his breath hot on Derek’s face. He craned his neck up, clumsily reaching for Stiles’ lips, and Stiles exhaled gratefully as he ducked down to meet him.

The familiarity of Stiles’ kisses was enough to calm him, and Stiles must have felt it, too, because he sighed. “Oh my god,” he mumbled, biting at Derek’s lower lip one last time before pulling back. “You feel so amazing, you have no idea.”

Derek gulped, trying to stay relaxed. He knew all that meditating would come in handy someday. “You can move, I’m good.”

Stiles was good, unsurprisingly, with steady strokes that seemed to perfectly sense what Derek could take in terms of speed and strength. It morphed from uncomfortable to pretty decent to _really_ fucking good, until Derek was thrusting back against Stiles, locking his hands in his hair to hold him down for sloppy, desperate kisses. Each thrust lit him up from the inside, a shivery spark as Stiles glided in and out, and Derek had to worm his hand in between them to strip his dick furiously.

He came, even, while Stiles was still hard inside of him, which didn’t even happen very often when they did it the other way around. It felt _different_ this way, like the normal sparks and shocks when he came were redirected and ricocheting around his body in a different pattern than usual. It was heady and drawn-out, and when he resurfaced from the fog, Stiles was gasping into his neck, hopefully not just because Derek’s thighs had him in a vice grip.

“Fuck, Derek, _fuck_ ,” he muttered. “Jesus Christ.”

“Are you close?” Derek managed to say. As his orgasm receded farther and farther away, like the tides clinging to the sand, he was starting to feel overstimulated and tingly in a not-so-great way.

He gave an experimental little clench, and Stiles let out a literal sob in lieu of a response, clutching Derek’s bicep hard as he jerked forward in a few rabbit-quick, off-rhythm thrusts. His eyes were clenched shut, his face contorted into a painful-looking grimace, and he was the most beautiful goddamn thing Derek had ever seen.

Stiles shuddered a few more times as he came down, slumped over Derek like a dead weight. “Holy shit,” he said after a minute, lifting his head to look down at Derek with heavy-lidded eyes.

Derek hummed in agreement. “Yeah, I’d do that again.”

Stiles laughed, and the movement seemed to remind him that he was still buried deep, his face twisting in apology. “Sorry, sorry,” he whispered as he pulled out, and Derek winced. Yeah, that didn’t feel great.

Stiles stumbled off the bed, grabbing onto the headboard for balance, and Derek stretched his legs out gratefully. He flexed his feet and catalogued the pain—a little strange and empty-feeling, which would likely fade into soreness, but overall not too bad.

Stiles staggered back out of the bathroom, a washcloth in his hands and a dopey, slack smile on his face. He wiped off Derek’s stomach first, slow and careful, then hooked a hand under Derek’s hip and gently turned him over onto his stomach. Derek braced himself for the touch, everything feeling red and hot and throbbing, but the cloth was warm and damp and somewhat soothing. Stiles dropped a quick kiss to the curve of his ass and slid his hand all the way from Derek’s hip up his back and into his hair.

“Nap time,” Derek murmured, pushing up into the soothing touch. Stiles laughed and said something in response, he was pretty sure, but Derek was asleep before he could process what it was.

* * *

The shrill ringing of a cell phone startled Derek from a deep sleep, and he grimaced as he blinked his eyes open. The room was cool and dark, courtesy of the drawn shades, and he was as cozy and as comfortable as he’d been in recent memory. There was no way in hell he was moving.

Stiles just groaned and ducked further down under the duvet, tightening his grip around Derek’s waist. “Shh, go back to sleep,” Derek whispered, drawing his nose through Stiles’ hair. “Just ignore it.”

The ringing only stopped for about half a second before starting up again, and then it was Derek’s turn to groan. He fumbled around on the nightstand, knocking over the bottle of lube—he really hoped the lid was on—before finally grasping his phone. It was Jake, his agent, and Derek frowned again. This couldn’t be anything good, not this early in the morning when he knew Derek was on vacation.

Derek carefully extricated himself from Stiles’ grip, ignoring the plaintive whimper, and rolled over. He groaned silently as his muscles protested—they’d spent most of yesterday at a nearby beach, and he was sore all over from a full day of surfing and swimming and…other things.

The phone was still ringing, and Derek tiptoed into the bathroom before he answered it. “H’llo,” he murmured, clearing his throat. He flipped the light on as soon as the door closed behind him, and he winced, slamming his eyes shut at the sudden brightness.

“Hey, Derek, it’s Jake!” he said, sounding as chipper as ever. “Sorry I woke you.”

“It’s fine,” he said, coughing again. “What’s up?”

“I have some big news for you, are you ready?”

Suddenly awake, Derek bit his lip. He couldn’t have been sent down to the minors or anything, right? That didn’t make sense, he’d had a pretty good season. Oh, god, what if he got traded? That was probably it. Not being based in LA would make it so much harder to see Stiles, and he’d miss Boyd and Erica and Patty and—

“Derek? You still there?”

“Yeah,” he rasped, running a hand through his hair and tugging at it a little. “Tell me.”

“You won the Cy Young.”

Derek caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and blinked, dark spots still dancing in his vision as he stared at himself, pillow creases on his cheek, his hair standing up in every direction.

This had to be a dream, right?

The Cy Young…Derek had been dreaming of that since he was kid. Since he was a freshman in high school, actually, when he decided that come hell or high water, he was going to become a pitcher in the big leagues. Since then, he literally could only dream of winning the most coveted pitching honor, awarded each year to the best pitcher in each league.

“Derek?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he said, a little too loudly as he raked a hand through his hair again. “Oh my god, are you serious?”

Jake laughed. “I sure am. And it wasn’t even that close, you came in first by a comfortable margin in the votes.”

“Wow,” he said, dragging one hand over his mouth. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Jake said, still laughing. “Congratulations, man! You’re on vacation, right?”

Derek nodded dumbly. “That’s right, still for a few more days. What—what do I have to do? Is it public yet?”

“No, not yet,” Jake said, smoothly shifting back into his professional tone. “The names will be released sometime later today. There will be a lot of media stuff, obviously, but we can push most of it off until you get back. ESPN or something might want you for a live phone interview, though, would that be possible?”

“Uh, sure,” Derek said, still staring at himself in the mirror. Jake’s words weren’t really registering, but he could deal with all that shit later.

“Great,” he said, already sounding distracted. “Just stay near your phone, okay? And again, congratulations, Derek. What an honor.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he managed to say, before hanging up the phone.

Derek blew out a breath. His life had just _completely_ changed, but somehow, besides his heart hammering away in his chest, he didn’t feel any different. “Holy shit,” he whispered, bending over the sink, clutching the marble counters until his knuckles turned white. “You just won the Cy Young. And now you’re talking to yourself. Great.”

He pinched himself, even, to make _completely_ sure that this was a dream, but all he got was a stinging red mark on the inside of his forearm. He splashed some cold water on his face then patted it dry and exhaled noisily, unsure whether he wanted to scream or cry or laugh.

Halfway convinced that this might actually be real, he turned off the light and let himself back into the bedroom, blinking rapidly as his eyes readjusted to the darkness. He made his way carefully back over to the bed and flipped on the soft light on the nightstand.

“Wassup, babe,” Stiles slurred, his face mostly buried in the pillow. “Who’s on the phone?”

“It was Jake,” he said, and Stiles unearthed one hand from under the sheets to make a _go on_ motion.

“Yeah, and?”

Derek smiled.

“And I won the Cy Young.”

Stiles froze, then flipped over onto his back. “You won the Cy Young,” he repeated, his eyes wide, and Derek nodded.

“I—yeah.”

Stiles sat bolt upright and scrubbed both hands down his face. “You, Derek Hale, won the _fucking Cy Young_.”

“Yes.”

“Are you serious?” he shouted.

Derek’s body had apparently chosen to react by laughing. He was bent over the bed, practically shaking with it, and somehow managed to emit a _yeah_.

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, biting his lip. “I don’t even know how to react right now, honestly.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

Stiles laughed delightedly and yanked Derek down onto the bed, wrapping his arms around him. “I am so, so, _so_ proud of you,” he said, whispering the words into Derek’s neck. “You know that, right?”

Derek nodded, his eyes suddenly burning, and he had to take a couple deep breaths before he could say anything. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“That’s such bullshit,” Stiles said, laughing even as his own voice sounded a little thick.

“I’m serious!” he protested, but Stiles just scoffed and tugged Derek over so that they were both on their sides, facing each other.

They laid there for a little while, lazily making out and talking about nothing while the bedroom slowly filled with the hazy light of dawn. Derek tried to fall back asleep, but he was too keyed up. Stiles was, too, and kept bursting into peals of hysterical laughter that would then set _Derek_ off, until they were giggling like little kids, wiping tears from their eyes.

“Oh, god,” Stiles said, groaning as he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I cannot believe that you _won_. Were you even thinking about it?”

“Not at all,” Derek said honestly. “I didn’t really keep up with the stats of the other guys, I had no idea how I was doing in relation to them. I didn’t even know they were announcing it today.”

“Well, it’s well-deserved,” Stiles said, pressing their lips together with a smack. They kissed for a minute, until Derek broke away and braced his forehead against Stiles’.

“But what if I hit my peak too early?” he whispered, loath to give a voice to the pernicious idea that had been snaking around in his head ever since Jake told him that he’d won. “What if this is it?”

Stiles made a displeased noise and rolled over on top of him. “Stop it,” he said sternly, holding Derek’s head in between his huge hands and looking down at him. “One, you are not allowed to be negative today. Actually enjoy this for a little while, please. And two, that’s ridiculous. You’re gonna win _at least_ one more of these in your career. I guarantee it.”

“Oh, do you now?”

“Yep,” Stiles said loftily. He slid off Derek and wriggled so that he was flat on his back, his arms and legs spread. “And now, I clearly have to distract you. Your choice. Obviously. Anything you want. Sex me up, dude.”

He winked, and Derek was laughing even as he pushed up on one arm and threw a leg over Stiles’ waist to straddle him. “ _Any_ thing?”

“Mhmm,” Stiles hummed, nodding as he drew one thumb down the line of Derek’s hip. “Winner’s choice.”

“Interesting,” Derek murmured, inching forward on his knees. “Tilt your head up some more.”

* * *

“ESPN wants to do a quick phone interview,” Derek reported, tossing his phone down onto the chaise next to Stiles. “Live on SportsCenter in about an hour.”

“Cool,” Stiles said, lowering his book and looking up at Derek from behind his sunglasses. “Is the news out yet?”

Derek shrugged. “I haven’t gotten calls from anyone, so I’m guessing not.”

“Your mom’s gonna freak,” Stiles said, laughing, and Derek smiled.

“Yeah, she is.”

“Take off your shirt and sit,” he said, gesturing absently as he looked back down at his book. “Give you a chance to even out that farmer’s tan of yours.”

Derek rolled his eyes as he stripped off his shirt, curling up on the wide lounger and resting his head in Stiles’ lap. He dozed for a little while, lulled to sleep from the sunshine and from Stiles’ hand in his hair.

Crashing waves probably wasn’t the best backdrop for a televised phone interview, so they rinsed off quickly in the outdoor shower and went back inside. Derek very much wanted to continue his nap after this obligation, so he just indulged the vacation mindset and climbed in bed with Stiles to do the call.

At exactly the specified time, his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Derek, this is Jemele Hill. Congratulations!”

“Hi, Jemele. Thank you,” he said, smiling at Stiles.

“We really appreciate you taking the time to talk to us for a few minutes today, I’m sure it’s been busy.”

“Of course.”

“We’ll be on in about 90 seconds, okay? Just stay on the line.”

Derek nodded, even though she couldn’t see him, and he listened to the hustle and bustle on the other end of the line. He heard a faint countdown, and then Jemele’s voice came back, louder than before.

“We’re on the phone live now with Derek Hale, who was just announced as the National League winner of the Cy Young award. Congratulations, Derek!”

“Thank you,” he said, unable to hold back his smile. “This is such an honor. It was a really strong group of arms this year in the NL, so I was not expecting this at all.”

“You seemed to really click with Tim Patterson, who was new to the Dodgers this season and caught each of your starts. Do you think that had an impact on your success?”

“Oh, absolutely. Patty is a true master of the game, and I felt really lucky to have been able to soak up some of his knowledge. Much of this award belongs to him, definitely.”

“And how did you find out this morning?”

“I was asleep, actually, when my agent called,” he admitted, and Jemele laughed.

“Good for you. Enjoying the offseason then, I presume?”

Derek hesitated. He looked over at Stiles, who was lounging back on his elbows, his eyes bright as he looked up at Derek with a faint smile on his face.

“Yes,” he said eventually. “I’m on vacation, actually, with my boyfriend.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

Stiles shot up to a seated position, eyes wild, and nearly dislodged Derek in the process. _What the fuck_ , he mouthed, both hands going up to his face. Derek clenched his eyes shut and tried to take a breath. It wasn’t the easiest, not when it felt like there was a steel belt around his chest.

“If I’m not mistaken,” Jemele said finally, “you just became the first openly non-heterosexual active player in Major League Baseball. Are you prepared to comment on the historical nature of your actions?”

Derek, in fact, was not.

Somehow, he managed to hold in the burst of hysterical laughter that wanted to bubble out of him. “I’m sure that many people, including myself, will have a lot more to say about that in the coming days,” he said calmly—how the hell his voice was so steady, he had no idea. “All I can do now is thank everyone who supported me this season: my teammates and coaches, the entire Dodgers organization, my agent, my friends. And my family, which includes my wonderful partner.”

“Wow,” Jemele said, still sounding a little stunned. “Well, let me be the first—of many, I’m sure—to commend you for your courage. Congratulations, Derek.”

“Thank you.”

Derek wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to stay on the line or not, but he hung up. His phone started buzzing again immediately, but he ignored it and twisted to face Stiles.

His eyes were still wide, and he looked about two seconds away from either jumping up and down or passing out. “ _Hooooly_ shit,” he said, reaching his hand out toward Derek before he seemed to think twice and pulled it back. He was completely still, as if Derek was some kind of easily-spooked animal. Considering his rapid heartbeat and labored breathing, it probably wasn’t so far off the mark. “So was that like a slip of the tongue, or—”

Derek shook his head. “No,” he said. His voice came out shakier than he’d prefer, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “No, I meant to say it. I mean, I didn’t _know_ I was going to say it until about half a second before I actually did, but…yeah. It wasn’t an accident.”

“And—do you regret it?” Stiles asked gingerly, and Derek didn’t even have to think about it.

“No.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, falling back against the pillows and covering his face with his hands. “This is too many emotions for one day.”

Derek stared at his phone, still vibrating away, and it started to sink in what he just did. There were guys who had come out after they retired, and there was Michael Sam and Jason Collins, but no man had ever come out while they were an active player in one of the four major US sports.

“Holy shit.”

He must have started to hyperventilate or something because the next thing he knew, Stiles had him wrapped in his arms and was making comforting noises in his ear.

“Shhh,” Stiles said soothingly, running a hand up and down his back and kissing his bare shoulder. “It’s going to be fine, Der, I promise.”

“Oh my god,” he said again, and Stiles squeezed him tighter.

“I love you. So fucking much. And I’m so proud of you. Come here.”

He pulled Derek down bodily until he was slumped over Stiles, and Stiles wrapped a leg around his thigh, holding him steady. Derek heaved a shaky breath and pressed his forehead to Stiles’ neck. “I should have asked you first,” he mumbled against Stiles’ collarbone. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, hey, it’s fine,” he said, tracing his thumb over the shell of Derek’s ear. “I’m out, anyway, and it’s not like you mentioned me by name.”

Derek winced. “I wanna do that part, too. How do we do that?”

“We can worry about that later. Just lay here for a second and breathe. C’mon, listen to my breath and match it.”

Derek tried to obey, inhaling shakily and trying to match the rhythm of Stiles’ chest under his arm. After about a dozen breaths, the black spots had receded from his vision.

“There you go, that’s better. Do you want a Xanax?”

The thought was tempting, but Derek shook his head. “No. Not right now, anyway. Maybe later, if I can’t calm down.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to…not deal with that right now,” he said, jerking his chin at his phone. The damn thing still hadn’t stopped vibrating. He knew he needed to deal with all the calls—Parker and Jake and Erica and Laura and his mom, he was sure, among others, probably—but he really just wanted to be alone with Stiles for a little while and let this settle in.

“You got it,” Stiles said, reaching for the phone and swiftly turning it off. “I’m going to text Laura and Erica, though, okay? Just to tell them that you’re fine because they’re probably freaking out, and they can tell everyone else.”

Derek nodded against the now-damp skin of Stiles’ neck. He could only imagine what the sports headlines looked like right now, and how much everyone was freaking out. The Dodgers were probably a little pissed at him for the lack of notice but nonetheless hard at work, he assumed, circulating the prepared statements and the press releases.

Oh god, he needed to breathe again.

* * *

Derek leaned his elbows against the deck railing and watched the waves for a while, tracking the endless in and out until the steady rhythm made him a little dizzy. The waves crashed, and world just kept on turning, no matter what. Normally, those big-picture-type thoughts made him uncomfortable, but it was helpful right now. The vast, vast majority of people in the world didn’t give a shit that he just came out.

Oh, fuck, he just came out.

Derek sucked it a deep breath and let it out slowly as he hung his head down between his arms. It had been a couple of hours, but clearly, it still hadn’t fully sunk in. He was still operating in radio silence, which was helpful, and Stiles had barely let him out of his sight.

Speaking of, Stiles padded out onto the deck and leaned his back against the railing, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders scrunched up around his ears. Derek frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

Stiles wet his lower lip with his tongue and then tugged it between his teeth. “Just—feeling enormously guilty.”

“Why are you feeling _guilty_?” he asked, aghast, and Stiles shrugged, looking down at the stone floors.

“Yeah, it’s silly, I know. But if you hadn’t met me…maybe none of this would have happened. You wouldn’t have to be going through this.”

Derek huffed and snagged Stiles’ shirt in his fist, using it to tug him closer. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s true,” he said mulishly, and Derek tucked both hands against the small of his back, under his shirt.

“Stop it,” he said lowly. “I mean, sure, in an ideal world, it would be great if a lot of people weren’t talking about my sex life right now. But _believe_ me, it’s worth it.”

“You can’t just _say_ that,” Stiles said plaintively, tipping forward to rest his forehead against Derek’s shoulder.

“I think I can. And I just did.”

Stiles sighed. “I love you. And I know I’ve said this about five times, but I’m really sorry that you have to go through this.”

“I feel guilty, too,” Derek admitted, and Stiles hummed a little, nudging his cheek with his nose.

“Why?”

“And also embarrassed,” he continued, and Stiles frowned as he pulled back a few inches.

“Embarrassed about _what_?”

“Not—not _you_ ,” he hurried to say, grimacing. “That I had to do it that way.”

“Do it what way?”

Derek sighed, twisting his fingers together. “I’ve been…I had been really conflicted about when to come out. I know I should have been thinking about all the kids who are gonna be impacted by this, or about all the shit that I’m going to get from everyone, but I wasn’t.”

“Then what were you worried about?”

Derek worked his jaw and stared out at the ocean again. “I was worried about my career,” he admitted. “Which is selfish.”

Stiles’ frowned deepened. “What do you mean?”

“I have spent my entire life working to be a professional baseball player. And with this…,” Derek trailed off, shaking his head. “Everything I’d ever worked for was going to be overshadowed—forever, for my entire career—by this one little thing, the gender of the person that I’m in a relationship with.”

Stiles nodded slowly, comprehension dawning over his face. “But you won the Cy Young.”

Derek nodded, his face set in a grim line. “But I won the Cy Young. So at least I'll be known as the _Cy Young-winning_ gay guy,” he said weakly.

“Is that why you came out the way you did?” Stiles asked softly, his hand curling around the meat of Derek’s forearm. He grimaced but nodded.

“Yeah. I didn’t plan to, but I was so…I was so _relieved_ , and it just came out. I wish I were stronger,” he admitted. “I wish I could have come out in a way that was separate from this, that was actually planned out. That would have been better.”

“Hey,” Stiles chided him gently. “There’s no _better way_ to come out. It was perfect exactly the way you did it.”

Derek let Stiles wrap him up in a hug and tried to believe him. Nothing he could change about it now, anyway.

“Okay,” he said with a sigh. “I should probably stop avoiding people now.”

Stiles laughed and led him upstairs, where Derek’s phone was still hidden in the bed sheets. It buzzed for nearly a full minute after he finally turned it back on, and when he looked over at it, it showed notifications for over 50 texts. He grimaced.

“Could you—could you look at them for me first?” he asked, his cheeks flushing at the embarrassment of such a dumb request. “I just don't think I could handle seeing anything bad right now.”

“Of course,” Stiles said easily, plucking the phone out of his hand.

He started scrolling, and Derek sighed, draping his arm over his face. He wasn’t worried about messages from the people close to him, of course, but he had a _lot_ of contacts in his phone, old teammates and various acquaintances and such, who might not be so supportive.

“You’re all good,” Stiles said, smiling down at him. “Nothing negative.”

Derek exhaled. “Really?”

Stiles nodded. “Lots of congrats for the Cy Young. You should probably call your mom, though. It looks like she really wants to talk to you.”

Derek bit his lip, scrolling through a few of his messages—their Dodgers team thread was full of positivity, that was nice—before he called his mom, who answered on the second ring.

“Oh, Derek, honey, are you okay?”

“Yeah, mom,” he said softly. “Yeah, I’m fine. What about you?”

“Yes, everything's fine,” she said, her voice thick like she'd been crying recently. “I’m just so, _so_ proud of you, sweetie. For…for everything.”

Derek clenched his eyes shut and had to swallow twice before he could speak. “Thanks, mom.”

“Your—your dad would be so proud of you, too, Derek," she said, barely able to get the words out before she broke off into sobs. “I know he is, right now.”

Derek just nodded, silent as a hot tear dripped off his cheek onto the pillow. He didn't really believe in that—that people who had passed were _looking down on them_ or whatever—but he had to admit that it was a soothing thought right about now.

His mom covered the phone as she blew her nose, and she sounded better when she came back. “Everything I’ve seen has been very positive,” she said. “But you ignore any assholes who think differently, okay?”

That was her tough-as-nails lawyer voice, and Derek laughed. “Okay. I’ll try.”

They talked for a few minutes, and Derek felt lighter when he hung up.

“My dad says congratulations,” Stiles reported, looking down at his own phone. “And if anyone’s mean to you, he said he’s fully prepared to commit the entire Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Office to the cause.”

Derek laughed. “Good to know.”

“And everyone’s talking about what you said,” Stiles said with a frown. “What are they talking about? You obviously haven’t done an interview.”

Derek nodded. “Yeah, but I wrote a statement. A while ago. I’m sure the Dodgers released it.”

“Like you ‘wrote a statement,’” Stiles said, complete with air quotes, “in that the PR people wrote it for you, or did you actually write it?”

“No, I actually wrote it.”

“Can I read it?” he asked, and Derek grimaced.

“You're a professional writer.”

Stiles snorted. “Well, tons of people have seen it now, so…”

Derek made a wounded noise and pulled the covers over his head.

“Sorry!” Stiles yelped. “That was probably the wrong thing to say.”

“You can read it,” he said grudgingly, from his spot under the covers. It was easy to find on the Internet, he was sure. He stayed under there, hiding, until he heard Stiles sniffling.

_Since I was five years old, my entire life has revolved around baseball. Through middle school, high school, and college, every aspect of my life was tailored to fit the game. And as it turns out, I tailored some other things, too, things that shouldn't have to be changed. I came to the realization recently that being honest about who I am and who I love is more important than hiding those parts of myself to better fit the image of what people believe a baseball player to be. Because the_ only _things you need to be a baseball player are a love of hard work, a commitment to the power of the team, and a passion for the game. No matter who you love, there's a place for you in MLB._

“Derek,” he said softly, pulling the covers back and looking down at him with a shaky smile. “This is so great.”

“Yeah?” he asked, swallowing. “You really think so?”

He’d written it pretty quickly, just in one go before he sent it off to the Dodgers at their request, and honestly, he’d anticipated a chance to revise it before they needed it. In fact, he barely remembered what he’d written.

“It’s amazing,” Stiles confirmed. “And everyone else seems to think so, too.”

Stiles kissed him soundly. That reminded Derek of something else very important, and he wrapped his hand around the nape of Stiles’ neck to keep him close. “What about us?”

Stiles snorted and bumped their noses together. “What _about_ us?”

“Like, how can I come out with _you_?” Derek said awkwardly, and Stiles hummed.

“Can I put something on Instagram?”

“Sure.”

Stiles grabbed his phone and started scrolling through his photo album. “How about this one?” he asked, tilting the screen toward Derek. It was a picture from their snorkeling adventure the day before, which by now felt like an entire lifetime ago. Their masks were on top of their heads, and they were both squinting into the sun, but they were grinning broadly with an arm over each other’s shoulders. It was a good picture.

“Yeah,” Derek said, clearing his throat. “That one’s good.”

He leaned against Stiles’ shoulder and watched as he uploaded the photo and added a caption: _No big deal, just the NL CY YOUNG AWARD WINNER. I’m so proud of you, Der, I love you._

Stiles touched the little button, and the official public proof of their relationship flew off into the world. “You okay?” Stiles asked, nudging his shoulder with his own.

Derek was still a little freaked out—he knew that there was still a lot ahead of him to face, some of which wouldn’t be pleasant. But overall, he felt lighter than he had in months. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, I’m good.”


	12. December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thanks to [cobrilee](http://cobrilee.tumblr.com/) for being such a wonderful cheerleader throughout this entire process. ♥ you, girl.
> 
> Hope you all like the end. ♥

It was a bit of a shock, coming back to LA and the harsh realities of real life after their idyllic stay in Hawaii. They got accosted by the paparazzi as they left LAX, which was the first time that had ever happened to Derek. But he just pulled the brim of his hat down and held onto Stiles’ hand, tight enough that it felt like he was crushing bone. Stiles gripped back, and they fought their way through. Derek’s heart was racing by the time they escaped into the backseat of a waiting car, and overall, it was not his favorite development.

Over the next week or so, three more players came out publicly, as well, including Danny. Derek, as the first, however, was still getting the brunt of the attention—both good and bad. Most of Derek’s current teammates spoke publicly, praising his courage, and MLB had released a statement, promising their full support. The Dodgers had done the same, obviously, and several of the other teams followed suit.

Even _President Clinton_ had called to congratulate him and express her support, in the three most surreal minutes of Derek’s entire life.

There was gross stuff out there, of course, and Derek had never been happier to not be on social media in any way. Stiles was getting nasty messages, he knew, but he was doing a decent job of _not_ arguing with anonymous strangers, as was his instinct, in favor of ignoring it instead. Derek hadn’t been to any public events that would incite booing or anything, but he knew he’d probably have to deal with some of that next year while he was playing on the road.

He also had to talk to the media more than he preferred, which was not at all. He fought tooth and nail with the Dodgers PR people about how many interviews he had to do, and they finally compromised on two. He did a baseball-focused one for Sports Illustrated and then a longer, more profile-type piece that ended up in Vanity Fair. That one had included a _photo shoot_ , which was excruciating. But he apparently did a passable job, and after they were both published with a decent amount of fanfare, the Dodgers promised that he was free from their obligations until the season started.

There were also good parts. Derek could actually go outside with Stiles—like _with_ Stiles—which was still novel. They went out to dinner at the fanciest restaurant Derek could find and unequivocally acted like a couple the entire time, getting tipsy on expensive red wine and playing footsie under the table.

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, laughing as they stumbled out of the restaurant onto the sidewalk. “How much did that dinner even _cost_?”

“Don’t care,” Derek said. He’d been way too satisfied with himself to even glance at the bill before scrawling his signature on it and then leaving a couple hundreds on the table as a tip.

“You are, like, _beaming_.”

“I’m holding your hand,” he explained, and Stiles snorted.

“Have we suddenly reverted into a puritanical couple? I’ve done a lot more than hold your hand,” he said, with a suggestive eyebrow waggle, and Derek rolled his eyes.

“Holding your hand _outside_ ,” he said petulantly, squeezing said hand harder.

“Well, that is just the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard. Look at us, bein’ all cute and gross.”

“And I’m a little bit drunk,” Derek admitted, and Stiles laughed, clutching onto his arm for balance.

“Me too. Then let’s go home and have some drunk sex.”

They walked for several more blocks, partly because it would take a while for Derek to be over the novelty of holding Stiles’ hand in public, and then took an Uber back to Stiles’ place, which was closer.

They came through the front door, and Stiles winced as he peeled off his blazer. “Okay, I take back what I said about drunk sex. My food baby is disagreeing with me.”

Derek agreed. “How about drunk cuddling and Netflix?” he offered, and Stiles’ resulting groan was bordering on obscene.

“Is it wrong that I think that’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said?”

“Probably doesn’t reflect well on me,” Derek mumbled as he fiddled with the remote. When he turned back around, Stiles had stripped down to his boxers and undershirt and was laying on the couch, his arms outstretched. Derek sighed and picked up Stiles’ clothes from the floor, taking them back into the bedroom and hanging them up carefully, alongside his own.

“Fuck first,” Stiles was muttering into the throw pillow under his cheek when Derek came back into the living room, in his pajamas. “We forgot to fuck first.”

“Huh?”

Stiles waved a hand and rolled onto his side to make room for Derek. “It’s a whole thing.”

“ _You’re_ a whole thing,” he said, letting his eyes fall shut as the familiar Parks & Rec theme song started.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Stiles said, pressing the length of his body against Derek’s back and tangling their legs together.

“You don’t make any sense. And I’m drunk. Shut up.”

Stiles laughed, his breath ruffling Derek’s hair. “I love you, you dork.”

* * *

The next morning, Derek found himself pacing around the house. He had so far mostly been enjoying the relaxed pace of the offseason, but this morning he hadn’t been able to get absorbed in his book. He probably needed to find a hobby.

“Hey,” he said, poking his head into the living room where Stiles was busy working on book edits. “You wanna play catch?”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to throw until January,” Stiles said absently, flipping through one of his ever-present notepads, and Derek made a face.

“It’s just a little catch. Please? I’m going stir-crazy.”

“Mmm-kay,” he said, typing furiously. “Gimme 10 minutes and I’ll be out.”

Derek sighed in relief and grabbed a glove and a ball before heading outside. It was warm, even for December in LA, and Stiles’ backyard was pleasantly shady. Derek did a few sets of high knees and leg swings, unconsciously going through his normal pre-workout warmup, even though he definitely didn’t need it for a simple game of catch.

“You know this isn’t an actual bullpen session, right?”

Stiles’ voice came from behind him, laughing, and Derek craned his neck around to see him lounging in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest and a glove dangling from his hand.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, hopping neatly out of his seated wide-leg stretch. “Habit.”

They tossed the ball around easily for a little while, then Stiles held his hand up and jogged toward Derek.

“Okay, show me the magic Derek Hale curveball grip.”

Derek snorted and took the ball out of Stiles’ glove. He held it like he was about to throw a curveball and showed Stiles. “Just like that.”

“Like this?” Stiles asked, taking the ball from him and trying to imitate the grip.

“Close. Keep your index finger right next to the middle one and make sure your thumb is on the bottom seam,” he said, moving Stiles’ fingers into the right position. “Yeah. You got it.”

“Okay. And now how do I throw it?”

Stiles was holding the ball stiffly away from him, as if he was scared it was going to bite, and Derek laughed. “Keep your elbow high, and rotate your thumb _up_ when you release it. That’s where the spin comes from.”

Stiles furrowed his brow, looking adorably frustrated, and wound up carefully. His throwing motion was awkward, as to be expected, and the ball landed clumsily about ten feet in front of him.

Derek blinked at him. “Well, that was awful.”

Stiles laughed and jogged closer to swipe the ball off the ground. “Okay, lemme try again.”

The next tries weren’t much better, but after about half an hour, Stiles could reliably manage a shaky curveball. “I’m ready for the majors now, right?”

Derek lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah, I think you should probably stick to books.”

Stiles stuck his tongue out at him, like the mature adult that he was. “Okay can you throw me an actual pitch? Just one,” he said, squatting down and punching his fist into his glove. “But please tell me you have good control because I am most definitely not wearing a cup.”

“Well, I _am_ a professional,” Derek reminded him, then jogged backward a few feet to put more space in between them. He wound up and threw, and the ball landed in Stiles’ glove with a satisfying smack.

“Shit, that’s loud,” he said, shaking out his hand as he stood up. “How fast was that?”

Derek shrugged. “80, 85, maybe. I’m not really warmed up to throw any faster.”

“Okay, now throw a curveball, I’m gonna pretend to bat. I wanna see what it looks like from here.”

Derek snorted, but he indulged Stiles, catching the ball when he tossed it back and watching him settle into a batting stance, waving his imaginary bat above his shoulder. He threw a curveball from his full wind-up, and Stiles flinched as it went by.

“Shit, that is terrifying,” he said with a shudder. “I understand why they say hitting a curveball is the hardest thing to do in pro sports.”

“Mine is award-winning,” Derek said, just the slightest bit smug, and Stiles laughed.

“And luckily, you have me around to keep you from getting a big head.”

Derek disregarded the obvious joke—too easy—and held his glove out. “Another one.”

“Nope,” Stiles said, cradling the ball toward his chest and backing toward the house. “You’re supposed to be resting your arm. I’m going to hide every baseball in this house.”

“Come on!” Derek called out, somehow refraining from chasing him. “Just one more!”

* * *

Stiles shouted in frustration and ripped the bow tie off, dropping it and scrubbing both hands over his face. “Shit. I do actually know how to tie one of these things, I swear.”

Derek pressed his lips together to hide his smile and bent down to grab the piece of offending fabric from the floor. “Come here, let me do it.”

Stiles sighed but let himself be turned around, and Derek looped the bow tie around his neck. He tucked one side under the other and started the first knot.

“I’m a little nervous,” Stiles admitted after a second, and Derek raised one eyebrow.

“You don’t say.”

Stiles shoved his shoulder with a huff, but he was pressing his lips together to keep from smiling. “Shut up. Aren’t you?”

“Nope,” he said simply, and he wasn’t even really lying. He probably should be, considering that they were getting ready to leave for the Dodgers big annual charity gala, which was the first official event they were going to together.

Stiles sighed. “Have I told you how handsome you look in your tux?”

“Several times,” Derek confirmed, carefully straightening the bow tie. “Yet not as handsome as you. That’s the only thing that’s going to get me through this night.”

Stiles groaned. “It’s not going to be _that bad_ , come on,” he said, and Derek shrugged.

“Maybe you’re right. At least this time I have eye candy.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Despite the nerves, I’m a little excited,” he said, his eyebrows waggling as he wrapped his arms around Derek’s waist, under his jacket. “Especially since we’re all dressed up—we gotta celebrate that long-term contract extension somehow.”

Derek huffed a little, but he couldn’t hold back the smile. He’d just signed it yesterday, and it hadn’t quite sunk in yet. Some people in the media tried to argue that it was just a product of the Dodgers trying too hard to look accepting, but honestly, Derek didn’t give a shit. If they wanted to “look accepting” by giving him a $80 million contract over five years, then that was just fine with him.

“Come on,” Stiles said, leaning in for a quick kiss and thumbing at his jaw. “We don’t wanna be late.”

* * *

“So how many glasses of champagne have you had?” he murmured, and Stiles laughed, hanging onto his arm.

“Three. If I have more, you should probably keep me away from the silent auction table. I already bid on a four-day, all-expenses-paid trip for two to wine country, and I’m pretty attached to it.”

“Oh, yeah? Who would you take as your plus-one?”

“I dunno,” he said, craning his neck. “There are a lot of good-looking dudes here. Maybe Danny would be interested.”

Derek poked him under the ribcage on the left side, right where Stiles was ticklish, and he squealed under his breath, knocking Derek’s hand away. “Stop that,” Derek said lowly. “You’re going to make a scene.”

His attempt at keeping a straight face failed miserably when Stiles pinched his ass. “Okay, maybe we should get out of here,” he said, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“It hasn’t even been two hours yet, Mr. Introvert.”

“Yeah, and?” he challenged. “Maybe I want to go home and peel you out of that tux.”

“Ooh, kinky,” came a delighted voice from right behind them, and Derek winced as he turned around.

“Hello, Erica,” he said, resigned. She winked at him and looped her arm through Stiles’, who gave her an exaggerated curtsy.

“Stiles and I are going to go and mingle,” she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder to better show off the neckline of her beautiful dress. “You and Boyd can hang out and not talk to each other, he’s over there.”

Derek’s mood brightened somewhat, and he followed her gaze to a high-top table in the corner. After a quick goodbye kiss for Stiles, he swiped two beers off a passing tray and handed one to Boyd as he joined him.

They stood in companionable silence for a little while, until Boyd jerked his chin to where Stiles and Erica were laughing together, probably captivating the small group of people they were standing with. “Not bad, huh?”

Derek took a swig of his beer and shook his head. “Nope, not bad at all.”

* * *

“Derek!” Stiles yelled from the kitchen. “What time are the potatoes supposed to go in the oven?”

“I don’t know!” he yelled back, wincing as the iron came dangerously close to his thumb. Speed-ironing napkins was risker than he’d anticipated. “Check the schedule on the fridge.”

Stiles was muttering something, but Derek tuned out, quickly folding the napkin and moving onto the next. It the first time either of them were hosting a holiday, and as it turned out, it was fucking stressful. Everyone had come to LA for Christmas, and he and Stiles had somehow gotten roped into providing Christmas Eve dinner. His mom and Laura and John were out at the moment, on some kind of hike, he was pretty sure, while he and Stiles were busy learning how difficult it was to host dinner for seven.

“Okay, napkins are done,” he reported as he walked into the kitchen, dropping said napkins carefully on the island. “What time are Erica and Boyd coming over?”

“Uh, five, I think,” Stiles said absently as he chopped a potato.

Derek glanced at the clock and winced—under three hours to go, and according to the schedule hung on the fridge, there was still a lot to be done. He rolled up his sleeves and quickly washed his hands before pressing a kiss to Stiles’ forehead and reaching over him for the colander of Brussels sprouts. “Laura just texted, they’ll all be back in under an hour.”

“Thank god,” Stiles said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve while he dumped the chopped potatoes into a large bowl. “She knows that she’s in charge of cranberry sauce, right?”

“Yep,” Derek confirmed. “She laughed for about 10 minutes when I showed her the schedule, but she knows that she gets one stove burner from 3:45 to 4:15.”

“I swear to fucking god,” Stiles muttered, slicing the next potato with a little too much relish. “If anybody makes fun of our schedule one more time…”

* * *

Somehow, dinner went off without a hitch—i.e., without Stiles and Derek killing each other or bleeding into the food. With their two main goals accomplished, they were free to sit back and greedily accept the compliments while enjoying the wine that Erica and Boyd brought.

After dinner, Stiles and Laura whispered furiously in the kitchen, not letting anyone else see what they were doing, and Derek rolled his eyes. Christmas Eve was also known as the day before his birthday, and it wasn’t difficult to guess what they were talking about. Especially because Stiles had been particularly insistent that he would handle dessert on his own, and a large white box had mysteriously appeared in their fridge that morning.

Sure enough, the two of them burst into the dining room, holding a cake between them and enthusiastically singing _Happy Birthday_. Everyone else joined in, and Derek flushed as they set the cake down in front of him with a flourish.

“You gotta make a wish,” Stiles declared once they were done, and Derek reached for his hand to tangle their fingers together.

“But what else do I have to wish for?”

There was a chorus of _awwws_ mixed with some cruder noises, but Stiles grinned happily down at him. “Just pick something, you big sap.”

Derek looked around at everyone, all of his favorite people in one room, before heaving a deep breath. With his mind flicking to his wish, he managed to get all the candles out in one go. Everyone cheered, and Laura swept back in to start plucking the candles out of the cake.

“What’d you wish for?” Stiles asked, nudging his shoulder playfully, and Derek tried to look offended.

“If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

Stiles laughed and reached over Derek’s shoulder to cut a large piece of cake.

* * *

Boyd and Erica left a little after eleven, followed shortly by Talia and Laura, who were staying at Derek’s apartment. John disappeared into the guest room right after that, and then it was just the two of them in the kitchen, staring at the dishes. John and Boyd had taken care of the ones from dinner, but there was still a stack of glasses and chocolate-smudged plates left over after dessert.

Derek reached for a paper towel and wiped up an errant spill of cranberry sauce from the countertop. “You want to leave them for tomorrow, when the dishwasher’s empty?” he asked.

“Nah,” Stiles said, slinging a dishtowel over his shoulder. “Let’s just do them now, it won’t take long.”

Derek nodded and reached for the sponge. They worked in companionable silence for a little while, Derek washing and Stiles drying while the soft strains of _Silent Night_ drifted from the radio in the corner, tuned all day to the station that played 24-7 holiday music.

“Pretty good for our first holiday, huh?” Stiles said, knocking their shoulders together.

“We’ll see if anyone wakes up tomorrow with food poisoning,” he said dryly, and Stiles laughed.

“Yeah, good point.” He dried the next plate carefully and added it to the stack. “I—I just really love you, you know? There’s no one else I’d rather argue with about the proper way to cook a turkey.”

Derek’s hands were soapy, so he just leaned over and pressed his lips firmly to Stiles’. “I love you, too. Even though your way is still wrong.”

Stiles snorted and leaned against him. It didn’t take them much longer to finish up, and while Derek was wringing out the dish rag, Stiles ducked behind him to look at the clock on the microwave. “It’s your birthday,” he sing-songed softly, and Derek smiled. He’d never really cared much about his birthday before, but he might be inspired to now, considering that it seemed to make Stiles so happy.

“Thanks for the cake.”

“You’re very welcome,” Stiles murmured against his lips. “I would be blowing you right now, if my dad weren’t right down the hall.”

Derek snorted and reached down for Stiles’ hand, tugging him out of the kitchen. “I’ll take a raincheck.”

They got ready for bed slowly, both of them seemingly reluctant for the night to end. Derek crawled into bed last and sighed gratefully as he laid down on his back next to Stiles. Stiles’ body was warm and firm against him, from shoulder to knee, and Derek closed his eyes as he let it all wash over him.

“I’m gonna ask you to marry me someday, you know,” he said softly, and Stiles rolled over with a yawn, mashing his face into Derek’s shoulder as he rested his arm across his stomach.

“Not if I do it first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH to all of you for all your sweet, lovely comments. I ♥ all of you, honestly, and you're what make writing fic fun!


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